Words become stitches
unpicked,
witches on broomsticks cast spells in my bedroom.
I laugh out at the half moon and cry to myself.

Sewn into the sentence,
unparalleled confusion,
sweating profusely I jot down
and squat down
the pain is immense.

It's like frying eggs on a flat stone
in the middle of Winter,
cold
disillusion
more lines of confusion.

The curtains are drawn now,
I have the needle and thread
I start to stitch sentences across
the top of my head.

More witches to cast spells
more shells on the shore,
she comes to drown me
and
I stitch no more.