The Seamstress

My mother always complained 

About how I couldn't sew 

"Everyone's supposed to know this. 

It's a survival tool" 

She'd yell through the hallway.

I'd try and try. 

To pierce a thread through the needle.

I'd be worked up by the thought of this tiny thing

A prickster,

Challenging me like my mother. 

I felt like the thread I'd force in.

Ain't I a thread? 

Forcing myself through tiny openings

Of someone else's dreams and perceptions?

I'd push myself even when I didn't need to

As time passed, 

I mastered the art of fitting in 

Even if I didn't want to

I was told it was necessary.

Because that's how I'd learn

To stitch back tapestries I never shredded.

To stitch back my buttons that were pushed too hard 

To stitch back a hole in time that saved nine

They never told me 

That I'd be patching someone else's mistake 

Someone else's scar 

On my flesh.

And I'd live with those hideous marks

And probably take them to my grave with my bones.

I'm glad Aurora got pricked 

And slept through bullshit

But was awoken only to marry some dork

Aren't we like her in a way?

'cause as soon as the spell breaks 

We rush to find someone else instead of ourselves

Learning to love someone else before we could truly love ourselves

Accepting others before embracing ourselves.

Nevertheless,I'm delighted to have learnt sewing 

Over the years I've stitched various linens.

Of my own and others

Including the one that drapes my heart.

I have sewed it over and over.

Everytime it was torn;

With colorful threads.

To make it look attractive 

For the next heart-shredder and a heartache.

My mother calls me a seamstress queen now

For I can be torn in million pieces,

But I can sew myself whole through the pain.