First stitch, second stitch, I close my wounds.
I conceal the layers of hurt.
Only my walls know my pain, for I do not wish to expose the cause.
My body is a quilt of a broken heart, a quilt of loss.
Third stitch, fourh stitch, I patch myself together.
Internally I am a disarray of randomly sewn colors.
Time is both kind and cruel, for it laughs that my patches are made of cloth, not stone.
I am composed of feeble material that holds me together.
Fifth stitch, sixth stitch, I am coming together.
Time has become kind and given me hope.
I am still afflicted, but no longer harshly effected.
I am still composed of patches, but now I am whole.