Tuesday, June 30, 2015


Weaving patches to cover the torn pieces, the needle pierces right through my finger, 

I don't attempt to replace my comforter, I cut pieces of old fabric, I seek stronger threads, 

I do my best to preserve my relic, but sometimes It's easier to cover myself with other blankets,

But I long for the old, I long until my tearing fabric full of patches is upon me,

Sometimes I cheat on all my blankets and lay between completely foreign sheets,

But I'm never able to sleep, I stare at the ceiling, anxious to rise, ready to leave, dying to reach for my patchy old cover,

Full and thirsty, desiring the lick of your sweaty skin, wanting to hear your grunting, needing to say I'm needing, 

As torn as I am, as much as I patch, I know that your water can soak up the desert that's become my skin, 

The patchy blanket that covers my heart has changed since I laid on your sheets, 

When your waves crashed my beach we created paradise in my body, you didn't mend, you didn't patch, you filled every crevice.  


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