What is it like—
to know my mind more intimately than i do?
Because it was you who stitched the seams of my reality
You who wove thread through me
when I was young and
your thumb could press ever so gently on the impressionable essence of my being
supple and awaiting the pins and needles you’d be placing.
Arching
the
tip
to
penetrate—pierce—split—tear seams apart —
You created me; the tapestry
from which
I see myself between the slits of your perception.
You know where my frayed edges will catch
and how they will unravel me
because you left all of the loose threads. . . . to catch and peel a strand of hair back
from my temple,
kind and
considerate.
