Open At the Seams

My mother made a dress for me it was beautiful and bright. She told me to wear it well and rather ladylike. Little did mamma know the weak seam could pull though, sometimes threadbare at the sleeves and a little more old than new. With needle in hand I would try to hide the ragged spaces. where my slip would show in what were the most awkward places. Many hours did I spend on the tiniest details to repair, So there would not be whispers and penetrating stares. Constantly examining this dress so that my hem would not show, nor did I want others to see a tattered slip that lay below. Merrily did I sow away as hem-by hem did rip. But holes showed too quickly I could no longer hide my slip/ Only a few times have these seams outrun my threaded needle. where everything was exposed to a slip that was rather feeble. Use safety pins and liquid stitch to hold the seams together tight, for this dress my mother made me was once beautiful and bright. Now, the patchwork that used on this threadbare dress has come apart once again because it could not handle stress. So long as I am occupied with needle pulling thread the darkness of my emotions stays deep inside my head. the shadows lurk in corners around the bodice and the nape; only seeping outward when I am busied with other gapes. So like a cloak around me the darkness becomes a shroud, weakness loosens the seams of this dress I once wore tall and proud. Someone once said this mind was the type of with men dreamed; only if they knew how easily it came apart at unraveling seams.