Quilt

quilt of love—a poem that shows that while the absence of those that once held me is still there, instead i am wrapped with a quilt of love—pieces of love given from various people throughout my life, and together i stitched them up, giving and honor and not forgetting every act of kindness. and with that i used my own hands to wrap myself in the love given to me, by those i have received.

what keeps me warm

is not made of one layer of cloth-

it is patchwork.

layers upon layers,

some given freely,

and some stitched through pain.

.

i’ve gathered what was offered

a smile, a helping hand, a wholesome intention,

and sewn it into something warm enough

to keep me going forward.

.

squares and shapes,

colors that outline the souls

who gave it to me with an outstretched hand,

now form together,

stitched with the tethers of my heart and my own shaky hand,

to form a quilt.

A quilt

which resembles a sea of memory

of lives lived

in hopes to bring warmth and comfort

in the coldest of nights.

.

the softer, more rounded squares

were given from the most caring of places-

a layer, a outer shred of their heart,

taken and given with a care only the most selfless can give.

while the layer is thin, and the texture is soft,

it is not light in the slightest.

it’s weight holds down my hand when it’s placed there.

i put it in my pocket with knowing grace,

feeling the comforting weight on my side as i go about my day

before heading back to my solitude where my quilt lies,

awaiting the stitch of another piece.

the colors of these pieces are more vibrant, visible,

for it comes straight from the soul,

which has its own unique and person pattern for each person.

that same pattern is on the small patch that is given to me,

standing out in the sea of shapes with their stitches.

.

the quilt holds many forms-

sometimes taking on as a blanket

or a pillow to hold the restless head,

a cover from the sun,

or the form a bandage-

a layer, a pocket,

that holds the blood spelling without and within

for when given the parts of another’s heart

you find it’s used to blood and it’s spillings

and knows exactly how to hold it while i heal myself

and then it gives it back to me,

for whatever i lost, i now gained,

with only a scar and a resilience for pain

left behind as proof of the effort to be tamed.

.

while the squares are not from me,

the thread for the stitching’s are.

i stitch it together with my own hand,

with intention to heat my body on those cold nights

with the thread of my memory,

and intention towards loving that inner child who did not have a quilt before

and instead was given the cover of stars

twinkling and shining in imagination

while their sharp edges and cool touch dug deep into the ceiling of my childhood bedroom

looking down on the shivering girl with only one intention-indoctrination.

the illusion of a blanket

was what warmed her those nights

paying her love and respect

to sharp edges that resembled stars

in the cool night of her borrowed bed.

.

some fragments of love did not make it into the quilt,

for they were not made to warm me

but instead instill purpose and another's intentions

in the form of a mirage.

they were not soft,

and had rounded corners,

no they were sharp-

cool to the touch

and pain lacing the edges.

.

these sharp sides poked and directed

with a huff of heartless laughter towards consent

as it told my body, my words, my mind

where exactly to go,

to what extent

where to reach,

where to stretch,

where to fill

and where to grow

where to gouge out parts of me

and leave a messy hole to be filled

for invading, desperate hands

to fill with their fist-

a reminder of what’s to come

if i do not abide.

a wound turned blade

pain turned purpose.

i’ve learned that these holes do not know right from wrong

despite my constant begging for an answer.

instead it is merely a gaping wound

exposed to the chillings of solitude

and the cutting voice of the person i aim to become.

with every step towards her

the fist that twists relieves pressure

with every step away

towards the unknown in which i lay

the fist twists harder into the wound

into my gut

but with my quilt, and my own stitchings,

i’m able to bare the pain

that others have not.

.

these heartless patchings

were made from the steady beat

of not another's heart

but the steps of history

the belaid teachings

instilling discipline and groundwork,

their charging footsteps and pumping arms

mimicking the comings and goings of the heart,

but with not the intention to warm

and to keep the living alive

but to keep the feet walking forwards

and the mouths reciting

in a world that expects you to keep going

with a heart that is no longer beating.

.

some forms of love were crafted to fit the piece of one who resembles me

but is nothing like me.

someone who they perceive as my own,

with my own skin and hair,

but with eyes and a heart that is not mine

that belongs to the one perceiving her.

they throw their intentions, their beliefs and way of living on me, expecting to swallow and become just like them.

they expect me to twist and form into this other

who is deemed more worthy of love than her,

who is me.

these pieces are not the soft squares that make up the large of my quilt,

but rather have sharp edges,

fit to form in the soul of one looking for a more directed, cold, and intentional life

meant to poke and prod to keep the figure from slouching

and keeping the jaw tight as its cut from the tethers of the heart

and instead relying on the teachings of a book

impounded into the flesh like a careless surgery

yet another body wheeled into the surgery room

overlooking the soul and instilling purpose

under the eyes of people who have grown numb to the cries of the patient

being that it is merely a job, and not an action

of defying and violating the body and soul

.

i wonder if i stitched it in the form of another,

threads mimicking stitches,

and cloth as skin,

bringing together the makings of another whole

in the form of many parts

whether the person looking back at me

would be familiar.

would i know them?

would they be the form of a parent i never had?

would they be an illusion of one i do?

but no, I know who it would be.

those eyes peering thru the once shattered but mended state

held together with blunt intentions and a desperate attempt

to look into the eyes of the one holding all the love given to me

and determine, for myself,

whether she is worthy of it.

because after all,

all the love stitched together would be a reflection of me

and no one else

because who else was that love given to?

who else extended out her own self to then be returned with another’s?

that form would become me

whether i intended it or not

because it is me.

a history of lives lived

in the form of a reflection of those who lived it with me.

it is merely a shattered mirror

pieced together to make a whole

that’s staring right back at me.

and while she may look battered and broken,

freekish and frankish with those stitchings,

and various cloth, different in texture and color,

she is not me in my entirety.

she is merely a rainbow

a mirage of memories

and a wrinkle fading in where my smiles have dipped

a record that i exist, and others see

and they respond with what i give out to them.

so no,

that quilt is not a just a record

or a song of purpose, of worth,

to the layers of the onion that is me.

it is proof, a warm reminder,

that i always deserved what is now wrapped around my arms

because it is what makes me me.

and as love continues to grow, creating beautiful new patterns and textures more unique and vivid than before, i know it will continue to wrap around me

in the makings of my own quilt

and the preservation of my own warmth

being what is getting me through my days.

the world is cold-

some colder,

but love is the fire in the night

the warmth in my blood.

a small smile of a memory

could be the reason to live the next day-

a strong hearted pinch to the sun to rise

for the purpose of that feeling

that hits me in a timely wave of nostalgia.

.

l now wrap my creation around myself,

my heart pumping beneath the given souls

with purpose and dignity.

the once internal pieces made soft

embracing me in a timeless hug.

.

i take my steps forward

wrapping myself in comfort and warmth

and giving my own pieces to others who need them,

showing them how to make a quilt of their own

so that they know they’re never truly alone.

i walk out, cloaked in proof

that i was loved,

and i am healing,

and that i choose to stay,

for her,

as me.

Thanks for reading, my loves 🫶💌💋 I wrote this one in the drive thru line for Starbucks, waiting to get my chai to bring to my art class. I really was feeling the pieces of love given to me over the years, and felt enwrapped in them, and this poem flowed into my notes app🌷

Leave a comment