I am a patchwork genius.

pieces of me don't match, the seams are messy and torn easily.

I lose pieces as quickly as I find them.

I don't match, I'm confusing.

People don't like that. They've given me rolls of fabric, others have tried to sew pieces onto me by force, whether to change my mixed up pattern or fill a hole, I couldn't tell you.

When I'm laying in a bed of old pieces of myself, a lavender candle burning itself down to the wick, I've been known to wonder if there's an original piece.

Was I always just patchwork?

Is there any pieces left of me from when I was just a lonely ragdoll they used to play with?

Am I just a walking hole that needs to be patched?

I can't tell you when, but I started to self destruct at some point.

A burning hatred raged at the pattern I saw in the mirror, even the ones with strong seems I ripped away.

Blood dribbled to the floor but I didn't care.

I wonder . . . why did I hate that pattern?

was it really just because...