patches
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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.
A eight-year does not sit in the summer grass and think up their future selves.
They think of the next glass of kool-aid and
where their "pet" frog went.
