I am,
I am,
I am
what lies between the folds of the bedsheet
that my mother washes every week.
I am a bundle, lost in between each and every
crevice of the sheet.
I grasp onto the loose folds
becoming one with the fresh, lemony scent of the
crisp white sheet.
I cling onto what's left of me.
Crumpled;
but your mother
straightens you out.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
I am,
I am,
I am
what lies between the folds of the bedsheet
that my mother washes every week.
I am a bundle, lost in between each and every
crevice of the sheet.
I grasp onto the loose folds
becoming one with the fresh, lemony scent of the
crisp white sheet.
I cling onto what's left of me.
Crumpled;
but your mother
straightens you out.