At times I wish to recede from reality;
To neatly fold into myself and metamorphose into a handsome, woolen coat
Ironed and hung, inside the very back of an old wooden closet.
I would not have to meet the sight of my worn eyes through warped reflections anymore.
To be so fully aware of my thick bristles like eyebrows and the dark buttons for eyes.
My discolored skin, blemished, the shade of it almost as if haphazardly stitched together, without any sign of forethought
The unavoidable disproportions that litter every thread of my being
The size of my arms, my thighs or my torso and the limited deference when it comes to the state of my hair
What alleviation it would be, to have your sides and edges,
your pockets and sleeves be carefully crafted together;
stitched with such precision and care, it borders on admiration
And yet I fear,
I have to wrap my arms around my frame in hopes of somehow being able to hold myself together,
to avoid all ruthless scratching on this damaged, torn skin.
All in hopes that this incessent tugging and pulling on my loose strings, will not mean my imminent end.