Cotton

I am a piece of cotton, wrapped around a bleeding wound or sewn into, because I am not enough as I am just alone. Picked but not pocketed because my value is in what I can be made into, strung along and given from place to place, exchanged for a lesser price each step of the way. What makes me enough is that I can be stretched out in complacency with what little effort is dug out from my user. I am either in everything or nothing.

Filling the hole of comfort for others is what I do best, my warmth on display for the taking. I find myself shrunken after each wash, rid clean from who has tried me on for the last time. Eventually I am thrown into the back of their mind and closet, only to find myself compared to their other dirty laundry and shipped off to the closest Goodwill bin, never to be seen again.

Holes mare my cotton mind, cold and molded nastily to fit the color of the ground of which I beg to come back to; my beginning must be cultivated again so I can develop into anything but an item of constant resale.

Where it is warm during the day, you find me at night and I am held under by a gaze unawake and unchanging. How do I show you my worth when you can only see me for what you need? It is enough for me to handled gently, folded instead of thrown and cleaned instead of stained.

My label is as rare as the idea of being 100% natural, but all you see me to be is an item to be paraded around and shown off as the newest addition to your style. If you will not feel me for the softness that lives inside each woven stitch, a line will be drawn where I cut myself short of your selfish tugs, which no more shape you to seem like the model you claim to be.

A mouth made of cotton is dry and unspeaking, sewn shut by its own maker and marked discount by the stain her cries would make if ever brought to her rightful designer. I am cotton, made to survive by what I can present.

Piece by piece

Heart ripped from a sleeve

In the early morning and late eve

I am taken and lain, pressed into the sheets

Moving as a torn limb

Taking after a love sinned

As a mother is forced to love her kin

She is grown from the regret, sewn within

Cotton wets to calm the fire

Cotton dries the tears with no tire

Stem and leaf are one with desire

Made to stretch, warm and aid every lover and liar

Wrapped around fingers a thousand times

Do you see me as the sheep with the wool pulled over its eyes?

Nice and nicely done

Getting pulled apart for fun

Make me take

Make me eat the cake

Because with you it is like I am smelling my favorite scent

Each place we find behind us, our memory bent