Ripped at the seams, this blanket s been torn. Old and worn patterns fade. Once, the warmth flowed to help me through those cold days. Now it just keeps the draft out of my room. To lie and say I can handle it myself, and I can be my own person. To try and only fall harder with each leap. These loose strings are flaking away, giving in to the pressures around them. No needle or thread can fix it now. Memories gone, future hopeless, nothing more than a rag. To cut these ends, I d cut this breath, to rip my quilt, rip my heart. As pathetic as it seems, I still find meaning in these ridiculous reasons, but I don't know how they got there. I don't know where it went or how it got by, but I can never get it back. I can either get it back or die/cry/try/lie/etc.