They stitched me up and sent me out
with a world-class, white-toothed smile.
Tradition sewed with thick black string
until its thumbs went numb and calloused.

Truth tarnished the needle and burned my skin,
but who was I to talk?
If you don’t have anything nice to say,
you best not say nothing at all.

Grandma prettied me up and dried my eyes,
said I should talk with God.
He’s an awful bad conversationalist;
The Saints remained silent night after night.

When that town was done, I was a right lovely thing:
delicately embroidered, just enough flourish.
Unsung secrets where a soul should be;
I guessed Blood was overrated anyway.

Now seams have ripped and sutures popped,
revealing gruesome wounds and ugly verity.
Momma, I’m sorry, it didn’t last;
I am not as strong as you are.