Stitches

I remember the sting of it, a pulling sweetness as it moved through. In and out. Over and under. White on silver to red and red and tiny little marks like an x across the lines of him. Together and together and together.

A prick of shining, brilliant and sharp and cold, getting hot, the way metal picks up the spark of touch from skin.

Sewn-up edges. Together.

Whose hand holds the needle and thread?

Mine.

Rip, tear, rip, tear, and then cut cut cut. Measur and mark. Here the dart, there the seam.

I knot the thread and bite it with my teeth.

Button eyes and French-knot mouth.

Ragdoll me.

Don’t you want to play?

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One response to “Stitches

  1. Are these flashes of something bigger? Are we as Mr. Malick said, a multiple selfless sameness that gives out pieces of a bigger picture a mote at a time, as though anyone is listening? Does it matter if anyone is listening? Here the dart, there the seam. That is what it’s about.

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