Worn

I stare at the hole in my jeans,

The skin of my knee covered by frayed threads,

Barely hanging on.

You’ve left me hanging for months,

The occasional taste of you,

Keeping the edges of these wounds closed,

But we both know it’s temporary.

My skin is tearing at the seams,

My heart is trying to escape

the grasp of my ribcage.

I’d offer you the pieces,

Beg you to make my soul into a quilt,

And keep it wrapped around you,

But you told me you don’t know how to sew.

You could learn,

But it’s easier not to.

You patch things up,

But never fix them.

The holes worsen,

And I’m nearly worn,

Realizing maybe you’ll never really mend me,

Never sew the stitches that hold me together,

But he might.

Your hands are calloused,

Stained black from the bleeding hearts of broken train cars.

His have told a million stories,

With pencils,

And clay,

And guitar strings.

They trace the curves of my body,

Memorizing every one of my shapes,

His eyes taking in every color of my skin,

Every scar,

Like it’s art.

You always see things in black and white,

Except for the grey area where you’ve left me.

But he sees in technicolor,

Far beyond the visions in your limited imagination.

You see me as tattered cloth,

Useful for dusting the cobwebs off your body,

But not much else.

He sees what could be,

Not afraid of the flaws in the fabric of my being.

Unlike you,

He wouldn’t leave me hanging,

Like ratty jeans in an overpriced thrift store.

All the same,

I don’t know who should take me home.

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