Stitches

I see through your disguise.

Past your flimsy applique.

To your patchwork riddled,

bursting, barely seemed,

thimble-walled eyes.

I can see how they leak.

 

I know that they are frayed.

Like the camel-haired thread.

I know that you're fed up

with all of this fluff

and you're afraid

of what comes up ahead.

 

I was, and often still am.

But even a quilt is

riddled with stitches, and

the stitches are what

Holds all of it

together. I see your scars.

 

I see your stitches.