Worn

You can’t throw yourself
into the laundry basket
wrinkled and worn,
awaiting your turn
to be washed, refreshed,
pressed and pleated
just so.
 
You can’t scrub off
the scars or bleach
the dark circles
that tell a story
of a woman who rises
too early, unrested,
underprepared for the life
she finds herself in.
 
You can’t stitch up
worn out joints
or patch tired skin
like a pair of jeans
you won’t give up.
 
But you can stand
witness to the woman
in front of you,
fragile as she appears,
and feel strength,
like silk, in the fabric 
of her.