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
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.