stolen moments

we each have a story
our own story
tidy or messy
light or dark
it is our own

occasionally
not satisfied with their story
someone covets another's
and claim it as their own

piece by piece
word by word
event by event
they wrap it around themselves

it never truly fits
as it is not theirs
but for awhile
they manage to hold it together

however
like a borrowed cloak
either too long, too short
or too small

if one looks carefully
gaps can be found

but for a season
or perhaps only a moment

they try to make it fit

and when it is my story
coveted by another

when it is my moments
stolen

can the weaving
of the tapestry that is my life
ever again be complete

or will there always be a tear
with a ragged edge
mended by
a mismatched thread