Stitches
'I can't tell,' I think as I thread the needle, with the thick, silky, black thread. I don't want to look in the mirror while I do this, while I do what needs to be done, so that I don't say a word. I feel the first pinprick, as the needle pierces my flesh, so unprepared. Blood rushes to the surface, but like tears, it will do no good. Another prick, another, another. I musn't move too fast. I have to be neat. 'Stop shaking, I know it hurts. At least this way, you'll keep your mouth shut.' The tears sting, almost as much as the needle. I knot the thread, tie it off, the job now done, and look in the mirror, brush away the blood. From my stitched up smile.This poem is about being abused and me keeping my mouth shut about it...when really I should have told. It's very figurative, though I probably would have done something like this if was not as mentally stable as I am...though that's not saying much. It's very personal...so please don't say that it sucks, just don't review if you don't like it. Written March 6th, 2002 © on Mar 08 2002 06:14 AM PST 18 • 0 • 1
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"'I can't tell,'..."