I am made entirely of flaws, stitched together by good intentions.

The seams I show are only what hasn’t unravelled yet.

I find new fabric to piece to myself, fabric found in others.

Weaving together a part of them to make up what I’m missing, cover what I lack.

I stitch patches over broken seams, thread promises around ones already broken.

All I am is a doll, whose stuffing is heavier than stone, yet tries to escape like air.

I’ve mended, covered and burst so much of myself, I don’t know what’s truly me.

I am made entirely of flaws, stitched over by others care, I don’t know what’s broken.

But I know what’s there.