I am stitched from seasons you cannot see.
My thoughts form clouds,
drifting in tangled spirals of maybe and memory.
Some days, my smile rains quietly—
on colors I never meant to wear.
There’s thunder behind my eyes,
a sunrise stitched in my throat,
and somewhere above my lips,
a storm forgets how to end.
I do not always make sense,
but I am honest—
a walking sky of shifting threads,
with rainbows that ache
just to be understood.
Made with love and wools
