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.