Fabricated

At night I toss and turn in my bed of needles, questioning the scrap fabric memories of my past, mixed up like a patchwork quilt. You tell your flowing lies of silk, as vivid as velvet and thickly detailed like corduroy. I am your fabricated child, from the twisted sewing machine of your deranged and cruel mind. I was once as enchanting as satin, decorated with tears and holes, now tragically in tatters. In the end, I am too torn to be mended, I cannot be stitched back together again.

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