My Blanket

I dragged myself threw the streets, carrying limbs and pieces of others down with me.
A heart from the man who misunderstood me, a finger from her from that time she flipped me off, brains from those who placed their work on me, dark black eyes from the man who broke my heart, lips from the ones who told me I was nothing, ears from the girls who waited for my every mistake, arms from the ones who shut theirs from me.

 

I shivered as I trudged threw the snow. Not the white, pretty, Christmas snow. The sticky, muddy, phlegm and vile that winter threw up into the end of March kind of snow.
The body parts drew twisted snow angels in the black rubble of snowstorms passed. I carried them everywhere I went. They were all I knew, all I had. I learned to love them, or so I thought. I learned to love what I had. I learned to love the memories.


I grew cold one day. Colder than I had ever been. I was shivering on the street corner, counting my last puffs of breath as they spewed into the air. And there he was. He came to me, in his quiet way.

 

And suddenly I had a blanket.
In my blanket the form was he.
He was warm.
He was closer than anything had ever been to me.
He was in my bones, my skin, my hair, my eyes.
He was in my reflection, my footsteps, my breath.


He taught me how to let go. Over the summer, the foreign limbs fell off one by one, the lips released themselves from whispering their horrid tales into my ears, and the eyes closed in acceptance and rolled away.

 

He taught me how to love. He taught me how to cry because of how much I could love. My tears flowed down my body and washed away all the grime winter had painted me with.


I carried him with me, like a child.
Tucked him in my brief case,
Hustled him into a suitcase,
Threw him in my purse,
Held him close at night.

 

The cold came,
It came and came again.
But this time I had a blanket.






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