LOOSE ENDS 

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I didn’t have to mend my old blue dress 
but needle in hand, thread through eye 
I’m sitting on the dark brown carpet 
with my back against the couch, staring 
at the frayed worn edges and the misshapen sleeves
trying to piece them back together again. 

Wiser women will say, worry is a thief in disguise  
and comfort you gently with their own anxious hands 
Painted nails that shimmer like jewels 
but a grip that only knows how to tighten. 
Passed down from my mother’s mother
I wear mine like an heirloom 
trembling along softly worn fabric, trying 
to hold onto pieces that don’t belong to me
always afraid they might never let go. 

But last night,
I dreamt I stood in that old blue dress
tattered and splitting at the seams
I let you pull the loose thread and we watched
as it all unraveled until I was bare in my skin again. 
You cried as the sunlight devoured me whole
and I bathed in every lingering drop of warmth 
relishing in the moment it all fell apart.