I will never let her know
how much of me
she unraveled, strands
lying in knotted piles
where I shoved them
in my closet.
She promised
to weave me together
like a tapestry to be
hung for admiring eyes,
but she tore some
of the threads
so the edges
dangle frayed and useless,
and she ripped others in half
or threw them out altogether.
Somewhere I hope to find them,
buried beneath the earth,
floating in some river to the ocean.
Every morning I stitch other things
in their place, temporary
substitutes to fill the gaps,
so that I go to her at night