The past is a tangled mess of
Bright and dull memories
All interwoven so tightly together that
To mend a tear in its fabric
Can seem irreparable and dense

A hurt from today can be caused by
A ratty thread torn loose in a second
Or it can span across space and time
To a tiny snick layered and hidden away
Within childhood memories

Seen in this regard
A skilled weaver is needed to unravel the hurt
But who of us are capable of such skill and empathy
That we can thread the needle
With the right color and length
To effectively stitch the tear tightly enough
That it will not rip again

Better to mend the past with a multitude of weavers
All skilled in their own ways
Loving and respecting the different facets of your many selves
Rather than attempt such a feat alone

A hurt need not be felt in solitude
Four hands are better than two
And eight hands are better than four
To patch and mend torn and tattered things