Mending.

Photo by Nilay Ramoliya from Pexels

I have sewn these seams a hundred times:
Letting out,
Taking in,

Adjusting for change,
Suturing wounds
And mending the tears
Through which too many have left, 
Exposing for a moment
That which I wish to keep hidden:
Tender flesh, secret places, 
A soul worn and tattered; 
Safely concealed 
Beneath the careful tailoring
And confident colour
Of that which I display to the world.

Today,
In the quietness of my sanctuary,
I gather my fraying finery
Close to my breast,
Protective of its frailty,
I  weep, 
Overwhelmed by the agony
Of an injury so profound
It may never be repaired.

And then,
Because I have no choice,
I begin to stitch,
Yet again.

©2020 Joanne Van Leerdam