I don’t want to share my soul. It’s barely enough for me alone. Already spread thin covering the expanding horizons. Sometimes I wake up at night because my feet are cold and I find them dangling soullessly from the side of my bed, slipped out from under the covers.
In wintertime it gets especially bad, when I want to keep warm and find there’s barely enough material to wrap around my body once.
In a panic I asked my mother to teach me knitting last Christmas. My soul needs an addendum or I will stand exposed, my head still wrapped in metaphors but my heart without a song.
So when you asked to know my thoughts and understand my poetry, I felt the tearing and ripping as my soul stretched to engulf you whole. If I had known you brought a sewing kit, I wouldn’t have minded so much. But you have two left hands, so I had to kick you out and reclaim my manuscripts from your arms. Not an inch of fabric could I let you take, for I would sorely be missing it later.
I don’t know if I’ll have enough surpluses to let you keep a part of my soul or at least share a corner of it with me. The fabric is so hard to come by, the patterns so intricate to create and completion takes so much time. It has to sit and ripen. Much like you can’t hurry a good wine. So don’t you go opening that sacred jar all the time to check if it’s done! You’ll only ruin it and leave indissoluble stains of intrusion in the linen, which is only meant to absorb inspiration and clarity. Everything I am is wrapped in that soul sheet. If you go poking holes in it with your persistent wish to figure me out, there is not telling what will tumble out first. My habit of correcting grammar or my belief in love. Either way a tragic loss. I would never be the same.
Your only option is to fashion your own textile, make your own patterns in your own sheet. Then together we can weave a thread of laughter and tears and sew my sheet and yours together, creating a perfect patchwork of personality to keep us safe and sane.
Get to work!