You. You've undone, me. Each thread snipped. carefully and thoroughly- not to miss a single one.
They don't make them like this, anymore. They patch with glue, and nothing really combines- really meshes- anymore. They squeeze tightly to what they hold but they hold nothing compared to these old threads bound stitch by stitch through canvassed paper.
Etched into my heart woven into my hips, they don't make them like this anymore-
they patch with glue and print on thin flimsy sheets of shredded tress immune to routine they know so well-
Slice Shred Print.
In my days, it was woven, it was thick canvas paper that paint couldn't bleed through.
It was woven into the spine, threads of teeth stitch by stitch-
Behold, somehow- you managed so easily to un do me.
Unbound and with each breath another thread slithers loose and inhales, then hums and settles.