Frozen

A pantoum poem.

He covered me like snow on winter ground,
what should have kept me warm was what froze me.
Unable to move, I understood now,
that I would never be able to leave.

What should have kept me warm was what froze me.
He was a blanket torn with open wounds
that I was meant to fix effortlessly.
So, sewing I then became attuned to.

He was a blanket torn with open wounds
wider than my needle could ever fix.
Every stitch I made he would just undo,
cold seeped through the holes, I remained transfixed.

Wider than my needle could ever fix,
unable to move, I understood now:
ice and warmth were never supposed to mix,
and that one could not simply sew warm ground.