Josephine Harley

Holes torn in the fabric of the being

Not male

Nor female.

A person adjusts

Tries to cover up

With what is left over.

Then life makes more holes

Rips more away

Leaving them clinging

To hardly nothing

But a tattered piece of cloth

People can hardly see.

Some protect their fabric

With everything they have;

Not ever showing it to anyone

But pretending

With something else.

Pulling out this fake cloth

Waving it around

Like it’s real.

Some take no chances

Some risk everything

None of it is a contest

The one with the no holes

Is the one who didn’t really

Live life.