These weighed down bundles
of my tumbled dried insides
collapse into heavy stacks of cotton
linen sheets, tangled;
memories of cold pressed touches
and warm suds wash over me,
while my seams come undone
in my hands.
Why do you think these threads
can be untangled?
I've looked at your patchwork heart
and oh, how I wish mine could be mended like that,
but I hope you can understand,
I've broken many needles in the process
and I'm not sure I can afford to start again.
Sometimes it's hard to let another person take a crack at loving you. Maybe it should be said it's hard to look at yourself and take a crack at loving yourself, again, too.
