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  • Madeline Franz


She wraps

herself in a blanket,

its fabricated threads

weighing on her wet,

soaking her skin.

Adorned with metals,

marking accomplishments

of perceived physicality:

money and cars and

the manufactured beauty

of counterfeit performances.

Displaying herself to the world

as nothing more than data.

Its warmth like a fraud

freezes her core

until she has no choice

but to shed revealing the

patchwork shroud

embroidered with blood.

Stitching suffering

with sentiment,

sparking her hope;

a vital suture of nature.

Marking her life,

as one well lived.

Because to bloom

from beneath a blanket

requires a journey of pain and love

and endless determination to be purely

Her ~



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