Bar Rag

A poem written about feeling too young to be so worn away.

I am a bar rag

Dirty and used up. The last man’s
Blood staining through to a corner
Stiff with spilt gin and trick’s lipstick
And dreaming of my cleaner self
Aint bringing it back.

Even the most tender of hands,
Stitching up the tear in my middle, have
To pierce with unhappy precision, little
pinpricks. Making me a spine of thread.
Better than the one I never had.

Author's Note

Where is there room for improvement?