I do not belong to myself.
I am created out of
splinters of memories and moments.
I am woven together by the soft thread
of love from my family. I am strung together
by the support of a community. One that has stretched morphed into something else entirely.
I am crafted out of the fi nest fabric
they say is designed by some sort of miracle
of faith. I am painted a faint cream, my hair is
strung out of a substance that only shines
its true color in the sun.
I am pinned together by tragedy and heartache.
I am a creation of the experiences that stick like velcro to an itchy sweater.
I am glued together by the glimpse of an impossibly gentle sort of grief.
My hands are rough despite the lotion
I have invested in. It seems as though even moisturizer cannot soften a calloused soul.
I am torn apart by tears and truths.
I am stitched together again by laughter and love. I am a creation of memories and moments.
I do not belong to myself.