Sewn Together
By: Dana Aparicio
Your fingers fan out, slowly, caressing my skin.
I am spread on the easy chair, overlooked and not looked at, decoration.
I am the hand-me-down your Mother told you to take, have, keep, never let go of.
I am the charming essence, the purity, your Father wanted you to have, steal, cage in, never lose.
I am made of the patches, the ones you’ve ripped and not collected,
the ones your runaway loves would not take.
I’m stitched wrong, all rough at the edges, and too loose in the middle.
The pattern you chose to mend me with traces back to the palm of your Grandmother’s.
She never taught you how to sew.
I am made of all the times you’ve sobbed and asked for comfort and warmth.
I am made of all the memories between you and I, both the sad and less sad.
Memories of my arms draped around you as you tear the seams that never pleased you.
I am made of the embroidery of your name, bold letters, jagged and trembling,
it tells the story you wish not to share.
And lastly, I am made of what you want us to be and what we are sadly not.
Of the dysfunction you’ve pinned on me since you drank from your father’s cup.
Of the heartbreak you felt when your mother looked at you with the same eyes she did your father.
I am made of ripped thread.
I am made of myself.
I am made of my own name, soft and curved, upon my heart, it beats and beats.
It’s written in red, written, not threaded, it hurts less.
I am not yours.
I do not love you.
I’ve learned love is not this painful,
I’ve found another,
I love them,
It hurts less,
I’m not them,
They are not me.
We are each other and it does not ache like it used to,
I do not miss it, I do not miss you.
I am spread on the easy chair, overlooked and not looked at, decoration.
I am the hand-me-down your Mother told you to take, have, keep, never let go of.
I am the charming essence, the purity, your Father wanted you to have, steal, cage in, never lose.
I am made of the patches, the ones you’ve ripped and not collected,
the ones your runaway loves would not take.
I’m stitched wrong, all rough at the edges, and too loose in the middle.
The pattern you chose to mend me with traces back to the palm of your Grandmother’s.
She never taught you how to sew.
I am made of all the times you’ve sobbed and asked for comfort and warmth.
I am made of all the memories between you and I, both the sad and less sad.
Memories of my arms draped around you as you tear the seams that never pleased you.
I am made of the embroidery of your name, bold letters, jagged and trembling,
it tells the story you wish not to share.
And lastly, I am made of what you want us to be and what we are sadly not.
Of the dysfunction you’ve pinned on me since you drank from your father’s cup.
Of the heartbreak you felt when your mother looked at you with the same eyes she did your father.
I am made of ripped thread.
I am made of myself.
I am made of my own name, soft and curved, upon my heart, it beats and beats.
It’s written in red, written, not threaded, it hurts less.
I am not yours.
I do not love you.
I’ve learned love is not this painful,
I’ve found another,
I love them,
It hurts less,
I’m not them,
They are not me.
We are each other and it does not ache like it used to,
I do not miss it, I do not miss you.
Writer's Statement: These poems are about coping with loss.