She is a man's hankerchief, folded and stuffed into a jacket just so.
Her frills a shock of color that accent him just so.
With places in her fabric where her fingers have worried the weaving threadbare and worn straight through but that doesn't show.
The torn pain of her children is woven in to seal pieces together but that doesn't show.
And she wonders if she is just an accent and if it's worth keeping just that piece of herself beautiful, but she doesn't know.
She wonders if she'll feel whole before she's discarded but she doesn't know.
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