Threadbare

To her, I was never only cotton and fluff

stitched at the seams.

I was the first one her small hands reached for

when doors slammed,

when voices sharpened into weapons,

and her mother whispered,

"Baby, come on. We have to go."

Together we learned

how a garbage bag could hold

everything a life became in five minutes.

We learned about

sleeping in the backseat of a VW Bug,

about washing in a gas station sink.

I knew every version of her:

the little girl who buried her face in my fur

because the boogeyman wore her father's face;

the teenager pretending she was fine

home alone on prom night;

the young woman who kept giving her heart

to people who forgot

love shouldn't leave bruises.

She told me everything ----

the apologies she rehearsed,

text messages she never sent,

the names she swore she'd never say again.

I listened, keeping every secret

inside stuffing that grew

softer year after year.

My body warped where she held me tight.

I wore her survival on my coat.

I loved her so completely

that every thread of my being

gave itself away

to keep her company.

Now, I'm lying on the ground

wondering if this is where our story ends.

If so, I hope she finds her way to a home

she never has to run from.

That's where I was always

trying to carry her.