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

Cut from clean white cloth only to become a tattered patchwork of my parent’s regret.

Holes have been torn in the fabric of me and patched with life and color.

But even if I like the quilt I’ve become, I am not perfect to them.

Not perfect enough.

It’s hard to to be something that takes effort to love,

An ugly and unholy mash of textiles at the back of a cupboard.

I pray that one day, someone will discover me and gasp in delighted surprise.

I hope they pull me free and wrap themselves in all the various colors and shapes of me.

Maybe they’ll breathe in my history and smile.

I am not the gleaming white robe I was designed to be,

But I think I could make for a damn good blanket.