A Blanket

She lies there, draping the couch or the bed, just waiting.
Waiting for the next cold soul who will seek her warmth.
Until then, she is useless. A piece of fabric with no purpose.
Wasted material.

She has been thrown away, forgotten by the ones she loves most.
Like a thoroughbred who can’t gallop,
or a pen with dried up ink,
there is no point for her existence.

Unless the weather changes, the snow begins to blow,
or the trees begin to tremble from the force of life’s gusts,
no one will notice or remember her.

She is their storm shelter—a necessity. But only a few times a year.
That is when they’ll pick her up, hold her close,
and expect her to fulfill their deepest desires.

She’ll be torn, edges fraying down the front.
She’ll want to please them,
but she’ll want to scream,
and curse them, all the same.

Where were they when she needed a shelter?
Where were their arms when she needed to be held close?
Where were their hands when she was in the hurricane?

No explanation given, no reasons or excuses even attempted,
to vindicate their evaporation.
She’ll want to run, to leave them lonely, as they always leave her.
But she won’t. She has no one else.
Staying, though torture, is easier than leaving.

So she’ll stay put. She’ll stay still. She’ll stay silent.
Because she is simply a sheet of silk, a blanket—
she will only keep them warm.