A poem about what we carry after the war is over — the parts of ourselves we hide, protect, and keep alive beneath the scars.

..

Tattered

©️ 2026 Shelly Moore

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I don’t want to wear this anymore,

but I fear it’s all I’ve left.

I don’t want to wear this heavy coat—

I’d rather a pretty dress.

.

But my closet’s filled with moths and grey.

My wardrobe is bereft.

It’s drawers emptied of color—

its warmth no longer kept.

.

A broken button remains where choice should be,

alongside a frayed black thread—

which belonged once to a cardigan

too tattered to now mend.

.

A jewelry box which now gathers dust,

contains all my shiny things.

Silvers, golds, and artistry—

I wonder if it still sings?

.

It once played a lovely little song—

melancholy and enchanting.

While a woman danced on her toes,

in a dress of gold and green.

.

When the war came I hid it away,

afraid they’d take it from me.

The bombs dropped and I lost it all—

all but this one little thing.

.

I hid her in a darkened place,

but didn’t want her all alone.

So I gave her what light I had left—

plucked from my blood and bone.

.

The long past wars have long passed,

but the landscape’s forever marred.

So I keep her hidden safe and sound,

beneath all of my scars.

..