The Blankie

A textured lemon custard,
Folding in my arms.
A warrior slaying my nightmares,
Smelling of safety and familiarity.

Tickling me with
Frayed edges,
Brushing past my skin.
An indelible patched scarecrow.

My family doesn’t care,
They think it’s a stinking vomit rag.
They threaten to wash it,
The aroma’s not the same.

Patiently slung over my bunk,
I take it from my bed.
When it’s time to sleep
It flops in my arms, over my face.

As I grow old,
It will never be lost,
Hidden away
Safely ripped and frayed.