First stitch, second stitch, I close my wounds.

I conceal the layers of hurt.

Only my walls know my pain, for I do not wish to expose the cause.

My body is a quilt of a broken heart, a quilt of loss.


Third stitch, fourh stitch, I patch myself together.

Internally I am a disarray of randomly sewn colors.

Time is both kind and cruel, for it laughs that my patches are made of cloth, not stone.

I am composed of feeble material that holds me together.


Fifth stitch, sixth stitch, I am coming together.

Time has become kind and given me hope.

I am still afflicted, but no longer harshly effected.

I am still composed of patches, but now I am whole.

This poem is about: 


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