I am a patchwork of my worst mistakes, stitched into
one by flat black thread, aching for a change—
aching in vain, for every night, I
(and I alone)
sit in my favorite corner and lovingly tear
apart the quilt of me, removing any trace of
anything that may have blossomed in the sunlight.

Like clockwork, the gray morning pokes her way into my room and
lies with me, nodding sympathetically as I mourn that which
I have destroyed,
both of us ignoring the frayed thread on my
fingertips and the disc that spins slowly, continuously, above us.