God had sewn me perfectly in his image.
As I grew the strings that held me together became frayed.
Days pass by and I fail to notice my stitches ripping. I don’t notice the cotton falling out.
Now I see that my stitches are coming apart. I pick up a needle to repair myself.
I look at my finished work. Instead of fixing myself I ripped a hole.
I reach for my cotton. I’m not sure where it went. It seems it fell out.
I have a bit of cotton and shredded fabric.
Each day my stitches stretch.

I hide my faults with a painted smile and new dress.
Did my heart fall out with my cotton? Where is it?
Without my stitches I feel as if I might fly away. My insides are strewn about like leaves in fall.
I’m held down by my faith and those who press their hands against me to keep cotton from falling out as they stick in their own.
People hold me. My worn dress and stained skin is still loved by them. Their touch and pain reassures me that this broken doll can still have her use.
Even when taken by the seams and torn apart.

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