The more me I become the more me I lose.
What got me through is now my muse.
Struggling today means looking back at yesterday.
What did she do then? What did she do when?
She is me and I was her.
Back when my trauma was a closed door.
Pulling threads has unraveled the flying carpet that got me here.
Now I’m standing on my own two feet.
Holding the strings of coping skills of yesteryears.
I keep trying to weave them back to what they used to be.
But the pattern that got her here doesn’t work for me.
I’m standing on the grass of forever more.
Holding the strands from before.
They whisper into the wind, “Don’t make me like I was before.”
Don’t build a carpet to escape or evade.
Build a foundation where the next you will be laid.
Build a dress to wear now that you are old.
Weave a blanket to cover when you get cold.
Knit a cap to keep the knowledge in.
Weave a basket to put your babies in.
But don’t use the old you to make the new you fly.
The adoption was done. The event was set.
The trauma you lived is now just regret.
She saved you with the flying carpet she weaved.
In each fiber, each color, each a moment grieved.
She is me and I am her.
The more me I become the more me I choose.
Choose how to heal, to grieve, and how to weave…
A tapestry of she and me and who we will be.
To hang as an emblem that who we were isn’t who we have to be.