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 others' thought it was distasteful?

The candle keeps burning, seeping it's lavender scent into the weaved fabric of my body.

I'm not mended, just temporarily fixed.

Even so, I love this messy, weak, mixed up genius.

I wonder if I'll ever find a place I belong, having so many opposing parts of myself.

But I realize I dont need to belong. To belong would be boring. I can be anything I want to, I can change my pattern any time I want, I can be the person I need to be and nothing can stop me.

I can't imagine having on pattern, being one patch.

That would be boring. To be just one thing. To have just one trademark.

Sometimes I worry I may not be worthy of friends because who I am reaches farther than most can comprehend.

Do I deserve to have friends?

I change so much, so often. Who would want someone they can't predict?


The good ones.
The fun ones.
The ones who know.I used to be but a ragdoll, the ones who know the fact that I change is a part of who I am, the ones who see that and appreciate that.

They're all I need.

A patchwork genius can get lonely and messy. But I'm stronger than them because I made myself. No one made me. I raised myself, and that's why I'm a genius.


The lavender is in my bones, I know. I am the lavender, I know. But the lavender spreads through the seams and remind me why I am the way I am. The lavender has been there since birth, the lavender I couldn't before recognize is now a reminder of why I'm still here.