Seamstress

Needle in hand, I'm pleased to help. 

Mending hearts I didn't break

For men that will not love me,

Worse yet, for men that will abuse me. 

I love to serve at the altar of your

Greatness. My knowledge is a serviette 

For which to wipe your mouth on. 

I am the keeper of knowledge on how to undo

Your trauma. Your brokenness. 

I mend hearts and trauma and find glue

For all of the jagged pieces that others'

Carelessness has left behind.

Scars on my fingertips from holding the

Stitches. I've lost feeling and count of all

Of the sacrifices I've made. Time lost. 

Pieces of my soul that were woven into 

All of the broken hearts I picked up along the way. 

I mend. I play seamstress to the throwaway

Lovers that women better than me couldn't stand,

I bloody my hands trying to prove that

The shadow of doubt behind your ribs is a lie.

And what do I get? I confetti my heart

For your entertainment. 

For your satisfaction. 

Come closer, amore. Give me the scraps,

Open your chest and allow me some time

To mend you. To hold your regard

Until you believe me that you're all that I want. 

Allow me to heal you, through love, lies, and lips,

And once you're all better, you can forget.