By: Kristyn Garza

My friend,

though small, you manage to wrap me—

every tear, every cry, every scream, everything—

in warm security.


Sprawling pastels make up every bit of you

stitch by stitch;

a giggle of baby blue,

a whisper of pale pink,

a wink of yawning yellow, and

a flitter of twinkling turquoise.


You are made of Easter,

the time of my birth when you were given to me

as a gift,

and years and years of








You’ve lost your softness,

a lifetime of washes washing you out.


You’ve faded and torn and unraveled,

as I have

faded and torn and unraveled

from the monsters you couldn’t keep from coming

(not from under my bed)

inside my head.

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