Patchwork

When you told me

my world ripped,

enormous tears

screamed through me. 

Then you fingered the wounds

making the threads fray.

You  pulled loose cotton

like fleas from the dog.

I cut out what was left,

made a patchwork,

hand-stitched strange shapes

until there was something I could put on.

You asked me

‘Why are you wearing those rags?’