I twisted away
from the comfort my life
was supposed to hold

toward unknown territory
where this Work was all.
I chose Love over Ease.

I could have stayed the course.
Could have hung with the good people
at the money job and

kept my spare time
for the good people 
at the art job,

but I tried something else and
now it feels
like no one knows me

based on what I am in total
and on my not being willing
to move one way or the other

if it means negating all 
dichotomies within me.
Such a choice would leave

the best of me behind.
Leave me wanting, unwanted.
Leave me only my own bones

to pick,
seeking myself
among my scraps.

I ought to be whole.
I try to stay whole.
Whenever I am split

I try to stitch myself. Days like this
all I can see of myself
is seams ripped and rewrapped

and mended with a million
different threads, blood
dotting the edges, swollen 

from the constant repair
and so fragile I burst 
routinely. I hate this

patchwork me, this 
once-beloved stuffed
bear still cherished by a few

mostly because I’m here
and apparently known to them;
I could do without myself as I am.

Still, in looking back
I can say there were moments when
it all made sense. It was more than

just hard work. It was more than
just work, more than just hard.
I can recall the touch of

loved ones, the touching.
Can recall that there were answers 
to unvoiced questions, even if I 

cannot recall them now. I know
they were there and I had them
and I was satisfied

for a few solid seconds. 
I can recall the seams and blood
becoming invisible in the right light

that briefly illuminated all.
I recall and recall and recall.
A voice re-calling the past

is all I hear — was it enough,
were those moments
enough? The same voice

responds, they will have to be.
I sit with that a while, then realize
that voice is not my own,

and I feel the stitches pull.