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Poem

The jar remains still, dressed in its glass mantle like a snow globe of silent forgetting,
each broken part of me lies there, floating in my warm and crimson waters,
a lake of lost memories, a mirror of the soul seeking to find itself again.
I open the jar and try to fit each piece into the deep voids of my being,
like a puzzle of the soul, but each time, I fail again and again,
and I wonder if I will ever manage to reassemble myself, to become whole again.
My gaze stops on the silver needles, shining like stars in the night sky,
someone has separated them from their thread, leaving only silence and cold steel behind,
the crude tools of healing, without a guiding thread, just silence and the desire to mend.
I clutch the needle tightly, a silent smile forms on my lips,
now I begin to sew each broken part, the cold needle pierces the skin with care and love,
as if mending my mother's old shawl, each stitch a memory, each knot a dream.
I sew my broken parts like a sweater of the heart, with love and dedication,
to protect myself from winter's bite, when the poisoned air seeps into cracks,
I sew again, like an old sweater, perhaps I will be whole again, even if only I know the story.
Each stitch a step towards rediscovering the lost self, each knot a warm refuge,
perhaps I will become whole again, even if sewn in silence, unseen by the eyes of the world,
a waltz of needle and thread, a dancing tale of healing and self-discovery.

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