Your Stitched Self

A flimsy, thin thread encapsulates your body.

It works its way through your epidermis, retina, cochlea,

And finally—your parietal lobe.

It’s attached to a sharp needle, placed in your hand,

Which soothingly pierces your silky skin.

You pierce and pierce until it becomes a bold backstitch.

The stitch, formed by your own hand, precisely pieces you together.

But it’s plucked by people who heed no regard for you.

And it’s caught on the cinder wall in front of you.

And it’s evoked by the emotions carried on you.

Instinctively, your fragile fingers proceed to pierce again,

Though this time, the backstitch leaves a bloody bruise.

Time and time again, the stitching is undone.

Each time leaving a bigger blemish than the previous.

Each time, wounding you more and more.

But you must keep stitching and stitching

And you must keep sewing and sewing,

Until there’s nothing more than tiny fragments of fabric.