The Unfinished Mend

By Jodane Mowatt
I had terribly high hopes
to convey a happy love

however, I soon realized that
my heart is carefully stitched
with the Greek roots of passion
where love is inevitable suffering

a pathos unpaved by self, yet endured by many


Love always seems to happen to me and never

something I casually experience

A love that begins to unravel before my eyes

never quite sure if I’m ready 

to sew it back together

as everything spills

and spills

and spills

out from areas I thought I patched years ago

like rain finding the smallest crack in the roof


A heart full of pain and suffering and longing for

something familiar, yet never fully known

when everything prior would mean something

where I could thank God 

for stalling the love story of a century

because “everything makes so much sense now”


But I always experience love in pieces

Never quite experiencing the whole thing

Maybe that’s my naivety

Blinded by the guise of romance,

a cheap lie sold to hopeless romantics

Oh how we should’ve known it was just semantics


Still, I suffer and I hope

to one day convey love 

without the weight of the world,

without shrinking myself

or watering down its intensity

absent are the rigid rules of society

to love wildly, freely,

like a name spoken loudly in a quiet room


Yet here I stand,

a humble slave to love

a servant to humility

a prisoner to what never comes in full

and never leaves feeling full

despite taking all that I have

now a heart stretched thin

between hopes and habits

sewing futures together from fraying cloth

beating for hands that never finishes the mend

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