The nimble fingers make quick work
Of the stitches holding together
His broken body
As they snip and tare at the crimson thread
That has become his stronghold
Against the crushing strength
Of a world that will never let up on its daily torment
To see that it has already
Created cracks in his skin
Too deep to ever cover over with
The sweet paint of so few
Loving words spared
By the harshly masked faces that surround him