I wrapped it tight

I wrapped it tight

against the night’s sharp teeth—

your old blanket,

the one with the frayed edges

and the itch that never leaves.

It smells of faded smoke,

of winter nights when words

were the only fire,

of a kind of heat that burns the skin

and holds the cold at bay.

My arm ached under its weight,

memory prickling against my skin

like the rough fibers

that claw and cling,

the only thing left

that felt like a witness

when everything else slipped away.

This blanket isn’t soft.

It’s stubborn,

like the past that wraps tight

and won’t let me go.