Patchwork

I am a blind seamstress

For three years you watched me undress

You take pleasure in what I can’t see

Normalised to taking your word and consuming it, whilst the sentences consumed me

I am a blind seamstress

Wanting only to mend

Gentle hands work in the dark in fear of reprimand

Eggshells crunch beneath cold feet

Heightened senses, echoes loud

Overbearing so I can’t speak

 

Sometimes reduced to a whisper

 

 

But love heals all in good time

 

Even my wounds of mishaps with needle and thread

Skin like paisley, dappled crimson red

 

But I just wanted to fix and bind

Honestly, I didn’t mind

I didn’t mind until I’d tried every patchwork under the sun

I was so selfishly selfless because you said I was the one.