Sewn Up

Not all men,

but oh so many

take things that aren’t theirs.

No, not just take, they pop the seams of sewn up beauty.

Seams that scream “stay out!”,

Seams that scream, “I have spent years building this body that so reverently holds my soul

So delicately guards my heart, do not touch this temple.”

Pop

Pop

Pop

Threads unravel,

They fall at our feet in a pile of stunned chaos.

We are talking loudly but she can’t hear us,

too busy talking in her head to a man who doesn’t belong,

doesn’t belong outside the confines of greedy disaster.

He has no place in the land of thriving bodies,

hips and legs and thighs,

and all the womanly curves that carve a women into something so much more

than man,

that carve a being so capable, so wise,

so fearful of the vulnerability that we have grown tired of hiding.

Over and over we rebuild each other,

tighten back up the seams,

patch up the tears,

re attach buttons,

but it is never perfect, there will always be signs that someone has been here,

that someone has taken what would never be theirs.

And so my first heartbreak came

in the form of second-hand hurt,

and a heavy blank door,

closed on a chapter we will never forget.

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