Like others, even I was ready to be woven with the finest silk.
Nurtured, cultivated, and handpicked.
I waited in anticipation, imagining my colour and texture.
I aspired to be the finest of all.

On the loom, you charged into the yarns,
So swiftly that even the weaver left unaware.
Muddling the flow, resulting in it perfectly imperfect.
The sharp weft, passing through the wrap, left uncountable broken yarn,
That could never mend.
Through the heddle, finally, I was claimed complete.
My creator created me so that I could gain a fortune for him,
I tried,
I did.

But it must be my imperfection that tossed me from hand to hand.
I got tied on her waist, wrapping her body to her bosom,
Enhancing and redefining her beauty.
I was besotted with myself, my existence.
Later, I found myself folded on his torso, sheathing his manhood.
Strangely, I yearned for that too.
I left confused,
Indecisive of my identity.

I aspired to be the finest of all.
But, is this what I meant to be?
Is this where I was meant to be?

Who am I?