It’s said that every seven years,
our bodies change.
We shed who we were and take on new thread
to spin into a suit of current experiences
and timid goals.
We can’t lose our previous selves completely.
At a deep, stubborn level,
our essence never morphs.
It lies in wait
gathering parts it likes
and casting aside those it doesn’t,
so that eventually, when the time comes
to accept our truest nature,
we can be as comfortable in our own skin
as we were before the influence of others took hold.
We are a patchwork of our lives,
well worn in places,
freshly pressed in others
and often oddly put together.
But we are human.
We are flawed.
And that’s what makes us.