If,

we could draw my heart,

It would look like the rugs my grandma made,
With remnants of fabric,
Stitched together.

Some dotted, some striped,
Tie and dye, pastel and luminous.

The tattered pieces created the beautiful mat.

Even if the stitches could not be hidden,
And each patch had a story to tell,
The rug was best seen as one.

It is as though –

I was of no heart;
Just,

fragments of scattered clothe,
Until my broken pieces came together,
To make me whole.