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The very make up of me is wrong.
Being as I am and not being as I wish,
I wish, I wish, I wish. ..
The what you call fabric of my being
Is wrinkled and has holes.
Burn marks , paint stains , and worn out spots.
Pills everywhere to pick off and distract me.
I don't want to know what fabric it is.
It's not any canvas or silk.
I sometimes like my messy apron
It has the feeling of a loved stuffed
Animal.
Loved, loved, loved
Until it falls apart.
yum_strawberry
 Never Ask Dante · Fri Mar 16, 2012 @ 03:34pm · 0 Comments |
