Blanket of Holes

After I was born I got what everyone else was promised. Well, you’re at least promised a few things, and a blanket was one of them.

A steady green to faded, and I dragged it along everywhere. It kept snagging door hinges, latching stray rocks, and by each day some threads loosened. I’d call them craters, the places where you’re just waiting to see your hand on the other side holding it. Before the hole consumes it.

They didn’t tell me you only get one blanket per life. But the more I thought about it, the more I concede even if you kept it preserved, amber, every blanket has a shelf life, or it’s no longer a blanket if it’s stored away. It’s a bundle of twine at that point.

Instead of a blanket given I wish I was born molten metal, sparks of cinnabar. By every winter it wouldn’t matter, and I wouldn’t have to fold it so delicately set. Brunting Sylvia’s breath.

It seems a little ridiculous. Preserve it as you might, the termites get to it. Years keep piling.

I wish I never had a blanket. Even if it keeps me rasped and, honestly, just drive a stake right through it.