Crafting a Dusty Coat

I was stitched together
before I could speak.
Quiet hands pulled taut
the fabric they found
soft enough to shape.

Somewhere between
discipline and survival
they chose the gray
thread of indifference.

I learned the rhythm
of needles breaking skin
without complaint.
I sat still while someone else
stitched my outline
into something wearable.

I wore those early patterns
like they were armor.
They were tight around
the chest. Stiff between
the shoulders. My breath
caught in threads every
time I asked a question.

The unraveling was quiet.
No dramatic tearing,
but frays along the edge,
threads pulled by grief
and routine until I knew:
This was never mine.

So I learned to unpick
the stitches. Let it breathe.
Let air touch what before
had never known daylight.

Now I stitch slowly.
I choose soft,
strong thread.
Leave seams visible.
Never hiding
what it costs to live.

Now I wear an old dusty
coat. It’s not seamless,
but something that holds
together, because it’s mine.