These sad shreds of my torn, emotional dress
scatter themselves across my kitchen floor,
fall into my lap as I bend my head into my hands,
flow in an energy web around me 
whenever the world leaves me alone.

I had mended this garment so carefully
using perfectly timed tears to wash it out 
when my children were not looking.
I had to replace one thread at a time;
I could not bear being mended 
anymore than I could live so exposed.

I wonder, as I run my hand over reopened gashes,
why you ring over and over and over again;
your silence screaming 
silently, screaming at me... at mine;
forcing me against walls 
and to my knees 
and, yet, nothing, nothing can come of your actions
in love's torment.

It will not raise any of us closer to God 
Where I, for one, want to be