you are standing atop a skyscraper and below you the world is spreading
like a patchwork blanket made of scrap fabric
like a quilt your grandmother made when you were small
and if you squint you can see it fraying at the edges
the tiny holes where the needle dipped in and out, in and out
the spots where the color has faded after countless washes
jumping, you think, would feel like a hug.
if you listen closely the cacophony of cars sounds like a lullaby
and you’re so tired
so very tired
so you close your eyes, just for a second, a blink.
focus. imagine the feeling of your mother’s arms around you
think of how soft the patchwork blanket felt
how it became worn with touch, the traces of a dozen hands
don’t think of your skin. don’t think of the bruises.
you are standing atop a skyscraper and below you the world is cruel
so you breathe
and you wrap the patchwork blanket around you
and you go to sleep.