The Rag on My Bed

You lay crumpled at my pillows, just like the torn blanket from my childhood. The shades of browns and whites fading after years of tire. Years of tears, nightmares and monthly washings have left you decrepit. Your sinews that once made you plush and lovable are spilling from the various rips and tears that mark your body; spilling out the wounds like pus. Nights spent with you in my arms; overwhelmed by the clash of cottons, the soft cotton skin spreading farther apart to spill your harsh cotton interior.
Your last cleaning caused a tear in your side. Now I wake up some mornings with my legs and arms entwined with you, trapped inside your wounds, between your skin and cotton seepage.
I refuse to sew you up. I will not patch the holes the dogs have borne straight threw you. Patches and thread could not fix the damage that has been done to you. You must be retired to a closet shelf, an attic floor. Packed away in a trash bag full of mothballs. Stowed away in a crevice, so in a few years I can press my face to your destroyed tissue and remember why I pushed away so hard.
As a child you held all the tears and saliva that dripped from my face; the weeks of sickness and lost voices. These are the days I’m supposed to say I don’t need you. yet, I know tonight I will rest my head upon you once more.