Tag Archives: sew

left in stitches

my father sat beside me

and his eyes were in stitches.

i fidgeted, and touched the linoleum floor

with my cold bare feet;

my father didn’t say a word.

he merely stared at me with needle looks

threading unspoken thoughts over and

under my skin in tight crisscrosses.

i flinched, once again, and my feet instinctively

twitched to graze the floor, but i only

felt frigid air and a million miles of

nothingness beneath my cold bare feet.

i was starting to bleed profusely

and my numb fingers were convulsing

from the relentless tingling that was

overtaking every inch of my

breaking-down body

and still, i didn’t have a clue on

what was happening to me.

i tried to call out for help

but, it seemed that my crying mouth

was already sewn shut, and

my father was embroidering his

guilt and blame on my face,

cast fault and lost sins forming eternal

patterns of this knitted contrition,

writing down personal confessions

that were not even mine to begin with

and will never be mine to keep.

my eyes were slowly shutting now.

and with the last strength that i could

muster up within me, i pleaded silently with

my father, screaming “what have i done to you?”

but my father, with his eyes in stitches

and his love for me trapped in a needlepoint,

he finally looked away and murmured

“what have you done to yourself?”

i think i may have shed a tear (or lint?)

before the last of my vision was tied off

and i was nothing but endless unraveling threads—

i woke up quietly crying and suffocated

by my blanket, feeling soft prickles on the

numb arm i accidentally slept on.

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iodine tongue

pardon me

for being unable

to fucking heal

like you easily do

as you talk with

an isopropyl mouth

stinging these cuts

like it helped to sew

so pardon me

for being unable

to fucking heal

like you easily do

and it doesn’t really

help that you’ve

ripped the band-aid

off my bloody wound.

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Counting Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel…

~*~

One, two, three, on my arms and hands I see

Ticking off the scars like the scratched tally marks on the wall

Five, six, seven, all scattered upon my frail body

Crimson blood constantly dripping, on the stained carpet it falls

.

Eight. Oh, remember this, my dearest mother?

The time you accused me and yelled at me for being a bother?

Shot off your hand, it’s all one big flash to me

And when I grew conscious I saw a nasty bruise, a purple mark so shiny

.

Nine. Look, father dear, the great fat shiner I acquired

When you fumed about your stupid job and took it out on yours truly

You were grouchy, you were enraged, you were plainly very tired

But apparently not tired enough to lay your hard clenched fists on me

.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Many more. All self-inflicted.

Sweeter than yellow honey, but rancid like rotten meat

Wounds to numb me down, to prepare me for the horror instead

To help me keep a straight face as my family lashes on repeat

.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. On the brink of my soul.

From my siblings who condescend at me and sneer at my role

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Too many to even count.

Thanks to my “real” friends who used and abandoned me as they flout

.

Dark circles on my face, I know lately I’ve been losing sleep

But who has time to rest when they have wounds so deep?

Escaping from reality, into horrid torturous nightmares

Wake up the next morning and into life you apathetically stare

.

Counting scars, near and far

Like morbid constellations, so pretty and yet oh-so dark

Colorful artworks, laced upon my pale sallow skin

But the cut of the sharp knife goes even deeper within

.

Counting scars, and sometimes they re-open

Painful, so painful, but I have to sew them close again

The needle and thread, they pass through and about

Keeping me intact, in one piece, or just at least for now

.

Counting scars, can anyone see me slowly break?

Can anyone tell from my eyes, can anyone see past the thick clothes?

Wounds on the outer, and on the inner, my soul quivers and quakes

My brain goes dysfunctional, my heart paralyzes, turns stone cold

.

Counting scars, all kinds, all shapes and all sizes, they vary

From different bad episodes, all with very unique stories

But I finally give myself just one last scar to count

When I get rope burns on my neck and asphyxiation makes me black out.

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