Patchwork

I stare at these walls

of haphazard rooms

filled with mismatch things

a life

once broken

stitched together

with bits and pieces

collected from piles of rubble

as if scavenged after a tornado

and I see

not a reflection of who I am

but of who I had to be

I see the storm I weathered

and the plywood barricades

that shielded my soul

I see the duct tape

and the superglue

meant to mend

the tattered

and the torn

of the worn out pieces of me

I see the patchwork

of the very fiber

that is my being

but it is not

and it will never be

all of me