I’ve got a threadbare heart, and I can’t sew.
For all it’s been through, I’ve got so little to show.
My leaps to euphoria and falls back into pessimism,
Pumping blood through my veins to say “you’re alive”,
Have worn down the strings that hold all of me –
All the pieces of me – all together, as one complete being.
It’s just patchwork now – something old, something new,
So much borrowed, and the many things I outgrew.
There’s no whitespace left. No clean slates to be found.
There’s just layers, layers, layers... a past, accumulated.
It’s been tugged at, strings fraying, snapping loose,
And parts have been torn away – replaced hastily,
The messy substitution at home in the compilation.
So I hide it away, wrapped carefully in red silk,
A fragile attempt to conceal the mismatched pieces below,
Worn down odds and ends clinging desperately together.
How easy it is to forget the beauty of a threadbare heart.
The one that is used so much, so often, and so fully,
That it can never be mended quickly enough.
While there is pain to be found in the endings,
Abrupt as the snapping of those once-strong ties,
Each loss is a new home for a new piece,
The latest scrap to enter the fray of my clumsy,
Inelegant, uncouth, yet authentic heart pastiche.
So while I still cannot sew – much less fast enough,
Or well enough to keep up with the wear
That results as proof that I am using it –
My heart, though worn down from use
(Preferable to being untouched, I believe)
And though threadbare, is still whole…
~Emma
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