The Wool That Scratches, Or, The Small Hole

The cold crept in, it really did, a bite,

so from the closet, I dragged out the night.

This old wool blanket, scratchy, rough and deep,

a childhood smell it could no longer keep.

Camphor and dust, a memory, thin and frail,

like moth wings beating, catching in the gale.

I pulled it close, it scraped against my chin,

a familiar hurt, where comfort used to win.

Near the corner, always, that threadbare patch,

a small, almost invisible, tiny scratch.

A hole, just forming, where the light shines through,

revealing darker threads, a faded blue.

It wasn't soft, this blanket, never was,

but it was safe, a kind of silent pause.

A place to hide, when storms were loud outside,

a rough protection, where I used to hide.

Now just a patch, a worn-out, ragged plea,

this small, dark hole, that looks so much like me.