Pockets

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I turn out my pockets, wanting that he sees
Many of the oddities that comprise me.
The floral-print lined ones I think that he knows
Represent my girliness, the things not on show.
The bright smiling-faced ones that cause him to grin
Show me on my best days and joy that’s within.
I don’t mind showing those that need stitching and patching,
Knowing that to darn them’s his only reaction.
The ones that are to my eyes not worth being saved
He pries from my fingers and with needle, engraves.
The ones that are tarnished black, stains won’t come out,
To him they are precious, and can’t be without.
There’s only two pockets that aren’t for his eyes;
Within their seams can only be pain and chastise.
The ones sewn shut by the threads of my shame
Of things I let happen time over again.
And the ones with the love hearts, the contents of which
Unravel and untangle with one single picked stitch.

Pockets

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