Please don’t wash my blanket.
I want the smell of balm still on it.
I know you think I should move on,
But I want that smell
Not to remind me of pain,
But to remind me, of inevitable healing.
I want its memory altered,
To remember each nook of my body,
How to hold me,
How to obey,
To know the language my body speaks
When nobody is listening.
I want it to still smell of me,
Because nobody can correctly describe to me how I smell,
And only my blanket can.
Please don’t erase the canvas
Of dreams I can’t remember.
For each time you wash it,
You make a cold stranger of it,
A person reluctant of intimacy,
And does a frosty “there, there” job
Of comforting me.
I don’t want to make new friends,
Or take strangers to bed with me.
I don’t think you’d approve of that