i am ragged, yes. but the nerve you have, to think yourself authorized
to pull my edges together, poke at me with your
needly words, tug your thread of waxed self-assurance through me
all in the name of improving me as a device of comfort.
my stomach is not your pillow,
and i don't want your permission to breathe.
i stitch my own wounds when i am ready to heal, i follow the squirrel's example,
hoarding sustenance in little places. my body is home to many stores of
seeds and berries that those who think themselves too important will never taste.
these scars of emptiness are my personal space, i hold them within my own reason,
you will not close them for your own purposes.
leave if you think yourself
too big to be warmed by me as i am.