I know that there was a line that I sewn upon my skin
Thread made of emotions that I couldn’t hold on to
They slipped and slid and came out of my grasp
And if I tried to lock them away, they’d easily undo the clasp
I sit at a wheel, my finger at a thorn,
Spinning roses, and flowers, and threads for toys
If I can create something, something to be kept,
Would I someday find these things again and learn to accept?
Or would the thread someday fade and unwind behind the scenes
Undoing in the corners, ripping the seams
Things like these, I know, weren’t meant to last forever
They were meant to be loved, cared for, watched, and maintained.
But if I cannot move myself from this bed,
And catch the hands of the monster speaking in my head
Would I be able to learn how to thread the eye of the needle
So I could learn to love again?