The baskets spill, the piles are high,
unfolded truths that will not lie.
A basement door is pressed and bound,
with secrets clothed but never found.

I sort the fabric, piece by piece,
for some bring pain, and some bring peace.
The child I was still leaves her mark,
a tender seam, a hidden spark.

The mother’s cold, the lineage torn,
old stains of those who came before.
Yet in my hands I choose what stays,
what must be washed, what I’ll erase.

Each folded shirt, each garment worn,
a burden shed, a self reborn.
And through this work I come to see:
not every thread belongs to me.