Worn
Published in
May 23, 2021
My love was armor
thrown upon your shoulders;
a shelter, you said,
from cold truths.
How proud was I,
then, to adorn those
arms that felt like home
and safety.
I failed to notice ragged edges
or rupturing seams,
riven by doubt and ambiguity;
split by dismissal.
Your headlong rush into
self-destruction leaves me
thread-bare, and frayed.
I am worn thin by your oblivion.
You wear my gifts carelessly.
Tattered, I grow ever smaller.
Mend me, then, love;
or loosen your knots.
