Tailor Made

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Brushed wool
Lotioned silk
Soft, not fragile
Though cherished as such.

Cotton plants the seams along the back.
Set out on its spine for the world to watch blow in the wind.
Receiving cloth where hips would lie
To protect soon-to-be seeds from breezes stained with despair
Trying its best to keep loosened innocence in tact for as long as it can.

Buttoned-down satin
One can look, though should not invest if its care is unaffordable.
Surely not a clearance item.
Rather, the most accessible exclusive catalog from God
On display in windows wherever desire shops.

Worn by lively mannequins
Then tossed like a rag doll enduring undeserved abuse
Used as a child’s plaything
An adult’s misplaced naivete
Ignored until needed for extra emotional security
Serenity woven in the front of the collar.

Its pierced soul passes through eyes.
Needled and knitted to make sure it fits the kings for which created
Royal garment treated as hand-me-downs
Mishandled attempts to wash the eminence until it fades.
The color runs too deeply.
No matter how much it bleeds, it remains in mint condition.

Fabric valued with life itself.
Molecular structure is threaded with the beginning of life itself.
Made of 100% indestructible fibers.
Rip- and shrink-proof,
With elasticity to support the weight of those who adorn
And scorn
But the value never depreciates.

The Favorite.
Goodwill never to be traded in.
More than a collection of linen.
The tailor’s measurements are exact
With no alteration necessary.
And it still fits perfectly through growth.



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(I want to read this to my son, if I’m blessed enough to have one.)

Two babies born at a hospital.
One: person
The other…not exactly
Or not quite…
Seven pounds, six ounces of American…sort of.

Description: hyphenated
Married into a nation with a myriad of maiden names
And a history of arranged polygamy.
Where natives have unwillingly loaned out their names and given another.
Based on another person’s…”discovery.”

But this is about this baby
Who will be hated due to being equipped with the power to make the Sun kiss him on the cheek.
Skin labeled as a throwaway color
Unmentioned when reciting the rainbow.
Despite outside light paling in comparison to its glow.
This lump of coal that is more valuable than any Christmas gift.
Infantile diamond
The prejudiced English twist on a Latin word cannot hide the love language in his spirit.

This child.
This improper use of a fraction
The next leg in a relay race he didn’t sign up for
Yet has to carry his teammates to a finish line painted in dreams more implied than told.
He’s just “supposed” to know.
Heir to a forgotten throne
Son to forefathers briefly paragraphed in textbooks
And mothers whose beauty is minimized because it cannot be quantified.
Aunts and uncles who are afterthoughts 11/12ths of the year.
Reminded that he is only a part of this family crest by chance.

He could have easily been baby Number One had the stars seen it that way.
But they didn’t.
Through no choice of his own, he carries a namesake that has a perverted definition.
Teach him both halves of his description
All the struggle, moxie, and degrading adjectives he’s been gifted.
Show him he is a present, not an accident,
That he inherited a past all the way down to the ethnicity box he will check in the future.

Then, call him what he deserves to be called:
A person.


In Stitches

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A man was down on himself
Confidence shaken, unsure of what move should be next
So he decided to try a new habit:
Yeah, sewing. Don’t you dare laugh at it.

So he takes up the needle and thread,
Attempting to hem his own garments and repair the rips he made.
This new hobby makes sense in his head
Stitching together his broken spirit, hoping the depression will go away

Spool after spool, he uses. Name brand doesn’t matter.
The strands cover his vision, turning rags into satin
The fabric feels good on his skin.
Having an outlet is what he thinks is best way for his self-esteem to be saved.
The pattern is beautiful for the moment.
Amazing how much care he puts into knitting away his pain.

But, “Help me” is embroidered across is forearm in shame.
Too afraid to openly acknowledge his demons
Yet he sees them during his lows,
So he sews to keep his mirages beneath him

But his world is upside-down
He plummets deeper while he is soaring
That is why when he partakes of the textiles, he ends up on the floor
The material does not fit
The process turns him sick
The methods of self-assistance have become a hindrance.
And if he were to admit that,
He will have victory over the troubles he struggles with.

He wants to beat them into submission
But it is his soul he is defeating
He pleads for relief from addiction posing as a remedy
Diversion now obsession, and he wants desperately to be freed
He is stronger than he believes, though won’t know it until he believes in his will, and
Stops weaving a dead end: when he drops that bad habit and leaves it…

…To find new hobbies:
Ones that don’t involve any needles.
That are more than just temporary fixes
To stitch the seams for his wishes and dreams
Belief in himself is all he needs for a sewing machine.