A heart stitched together
with trembling hands,
more times than it was ever meant to be.
Unraveling a little more
each time it is mended.
The threads grow thinner.
The fabric more fragile.
The edges no longer remember
how they once belonged together.
Every goodbye another tear,
every betrayal another seam,
until there is almost
more thread than skin
barely holding on.
I have worn my scars
like offerings,
mistaking sacrifice
for affection,
mistaken survival
for love.
I learned to disappear
one piece at a time.
To give until I was hollow,
to bleed without sound,
believing emptiness
was the price of being chosen.
But I was never chosen –
never loved.
Only borrowed.
Only admired for a fleeting moment.
Only enough
until someone better comes along.
Someone easier.
Someone lighter.
Someone whole.
I was always
almost enough.
Almost claimed.
Almost loved.
A passing comfort.
A temporary home.
Never the place
someone stayed.
So tell me,
who could ever love
someone like me?
Who could love someone
stitched together
by their own shaking hands,
when even they
cannot remember
what it feels like
to be whole?
How could anyone love
someone who does not know
what love
is suppose to feel like?
Tearing yourself apart
to keep someone else is not love.
It is just another stitch,
trying desperately
to hold together
what should never have been broken
in the first place.
©2026 M.Stiles/NotYourBunnyXO
Poems
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