By: Kristyn Garza
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.