by rachel

is an old friend. His hands are calloused
from holding on to patch-
work pieces of my life for too long,
too tight.

As a child, Confusion
was the kid in the corner,
his baby claws wrapped around the fraying threads,
Waiting, silent, si-

Now, Confusion is a shapeshifter.
Some days he is a blank sheet of paper
line after line staring back at me.
Others he is the boy making my mind
Home after 2am, curled up in the corner,

Right there, up-
to the left, where
another should be.

These days, I no longer fight
My hands against his claws,
teasing the stitches apart.

These days, I slide
my palms into his calloused grasp,
his fingers
in mine now less like apprehension;

more like comfort.