And it’s a bittersweet feeling,

really difficult to explain.

I’ve met a lot of people,

I’ve loved them very deeply.

I know I can't control the way they loved me back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches,

they burn my skin.

I look often at their patchwork

and the past we share.

And I’ve known you for so long now—

I love you very deeply,

and I can’t control the way you love me back:

harsh, fierce, tiny little stitches,

they scar my skin.

And it’s a confusing feeling,

so hard to understand.

My skin’s marked by people,

by the people I very deeply love.

I know I can’t control the way they love me back:

piercing, burning, tiny little stitches.

I wish I could see my skin.

I often look back at myself

and the people I’ve met.

I wonder if I’ve marked you the same now.

You love me very deeply,

and I can’t control the way I love you back:

aggressive, intense, tiny little stitches.

I see the scars in your skin.

“You’re so much like them,” I hear for the dozenth time. I smile and nod politely, even though all I want to do is scream.

I am nothing like my parents! I want to shout. I am against everything they ever stood for! I am their polar opposite!

Except I’m not. Hard as I try, I can’t escape the things I inherited from them. It’s more than just my mom’s red hair and my dad’s pointed nose. It’s my dad’s temper, and my mom’s tendency to reach for a drink the minute things get a little challenging. It’s my dad’s need to be right and my mom’s refusal to acknowledge when there’s a problem. These are the characteristics that I’ve defined them by, and these are the traits that I wrestle with every day.

The outside world never saw any of it, but I did. Growing up, I had to listen as my dad screamed at us; I had to watch as my mom reached for that bottle. I felt the impacts of my dad’s stubbornness and my mom’s denial. They’ve passed on their traits to me, but they’ve also shown me how those traits can hurt others. And I plan to do everything I can to be different.

I can’t eliminate my temper, but I can go to therapy and learn how to deal with anger in healthy ways. I can never be free from the temptation to take a drink when things get rough, but I can learn to face my problems head-on and ask for help when it’s more than I can handle.

And I can surround myself with people who make me better.

I loved my parents. I still do, but now I have people in my life who have shown me how to treat the people I love better.

I may never be able to leave behind the imprints my parents have on me, but maybe, if I learn from others, the things I inherited from my parents will just be small pieces within the patchwork of my life – integral to who I am, but no more important or noticeable than any other. And maybe even less so.

I look at these scars

and think, uncritically

live with love, or do without

none of these

were caused

by anyone

only by carrying on, and caring about

I stabbed myself with scissors when I was little

and have stitch-slashes across my middle

and at the temple a small, raised gash

looking in the mirror in confusion

as to which side it happened on,

Good or Evil?

I still have callous marks on the left

from flailing on the violin

and from squeezing the life

out of my pencil on the right

in pursuit of... I'm not sure what?

little pieces of hearts, always

to make whole again

maybe more fully loveable

maybe only to oneself

trying not to take anything

from anybody,

like it might be theft

I've refused everything,

even advice freely given

and I'd wish for all of us

a skin blameless, and smoothly healing

Sophie sat by the window, the soft hum of the rain filling the room. She ran her fingers over an old quilt draped across her lap, its many patches a blend of colors and patterns. Each piece told a story, a memory stitched into its fabric.

Her grandmother had given it to her when she was a child, each patch sewn with love and care. "This quilt is like your heart," her grandmother once said. "It's made from pieces of everyone you've ever loved."

Sophie smiled at the memory, her heart warming as she traced the faded fabric. There was a patch of blue checkered cloth from her grandfather's old shirt, the one he wore on long walks by the river. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand holding hers as they skipped stones across the water.

Next to it was a bright yellow square from her childhood best friend’s dress, the one they had worn to climb trees and chase butterflies in the summer. They’d laugh so hard that their sides ached, and they promised to never grow apart, even though life had taken them down different paths.

A floral patch, delicate and pink, came from the scarf her mother always wore, a symbol of comfort during her hardest days. Her mother's gentle words echoed in her mind: "You are stronger than you think, Sophie."

With each patch, a new face, a new moment came to life. The quilt, much like Sophie herself, was a patchwork of love—of the people who had shaped her, loved her, and left their mark on her heart.

As the rain drizzled on, Sophie wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, realizing that she, too, was a patchwork of everyone she had ever loved. And even though some of those people were no longer with her, their love continued to surround her, keeping her warm.

In the end, she thought, we carry pieces of everyone we’ve ever loved, stitched into the fabric of who we are.

if it's true

that we ought love

everyone then,

each of us should

comprise an odd 8 billion

quilted pieces, growing,

though our flesh appears

relatively smooth, even if

contiguous to each other

mentally fragmented a bit

in calico and seersucker

...but love is a-proportional

and we've 330 billion cells

replaced daily

in which it's hidden

we love some more

we love some less

we toss some out

every seven days

some we try to keep

as memories like bones

for years...

we want to say,

beating the chest, gently

Love is immaterial, forever

just depends on the material

09.30.2024

"You are a patchwork of everyone you've ever loved" challenge @AJAY9979

What makes the patch work, is the fabric and the stitch

The wrong fabric with the wrong stitch, and the patch will rip

and damage the specially formed piece, and article

The wrong stitch to the right fabric, and it won't stay

like it should, needing frequent needling back to...

The right stitch to the wrong fabric leaves slash marks

and a gaping hole, where the fitting should have been

unlike the right fabric, with the right stitch

These will outlast your garment.

Patches was a Lovey

Made long ago

Hand stitched

Hand me down

Kisses and Hugs

Hand me down

scrapes of Pants

Favorite T-shirts

and Pillowslips

a Stuffy, stuffed belly

Full like Thanksgiving

With the Fluff filling

Of our silly Outgrown

Warm winter coats

If I am made from of all people I've loved, this quilt was here before I ever was born.

I was but a speck on God’s horizon and the frame of my quilt already here.

If we are to talk of love we must talk from all the beginnings. And there is never just one.

I used to think that I loved too loudly. Now, I know it was only a small yawn in comparison to the love I have received in return.

Late night phone calls, whispers of comfort, showing up in the middle of the night, in the middle of their day to help me, when I was a puddle of melancholy on the floor. Celebrating my little victories and the very, very big ones too. What is this if not love sewn together making my patchwork heart beat.

I think the rest of my life will be loving them back in return, will be making their quilt so colorful, so bold, so full, they will feel this warmth for the rest of their days.

Mirror mirror

On the wall:

Who am I

Most of all?

Reflection gazed

Right back at me:

Who can I

Really be?

First shown Max

My soul was split:

How did the mirror

See that bit?

He was a friend

A buddy, a pal.

He had high spirits;

A keen morale.

Then was Kristen:

A funny girl.

She was a dancer;

Taught me to twirl.

When I saw Danny,

My heart was torn.

He reminded me

Of his mom reborn.

Emma brought

Her smiling face;

Demonstrating

Her quiet grace.

Then, Matt and Jane,

And, Evan and Quinn.

I don't know where

They end and I begin.

Mirror mirror

On the wall:

Who am I?

I am them all.