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Gracie Anne Jan 23
The urgent care is the nursery
Where I choose my seeds with thought.
The doctor is the gardener
Who knows how to fix what I’ve wrought.

She sows the seeds inside my skin,
Yet not with a trowel or ***.
She uses a needle and surgical thread,
With budding knots lined up in a row.

Then she leaves me with my tidy ground
And some knowledge on how I should care
For the lined up plot she’s left to me,
Whose potential I’m required to bear.

The deep rivet I slashed into my skin
Is where the seedlings take root.
The blood from my veins keeps them moist
As the new blossoms stand resolute.

But when the weather grows dark and dreary,
My sprouts need cover from the cold.
So I bundle them up with jeans and sweats
To protect them and let them take hold.

But despite the layers I pile atop,
The small spiny blooms poke through.
I run my fingers back and forth,
And marvel at how fast they grew.

Then after they’ve grown for fourteen days,
I return to the nursery at last.
The gardener plucks and prunes and picks
‘Til the wounds and the blooms come to pass.

So now the perennials have passed us by,
And the sprouts have been taken to bin.
The wound that watered my seedlings’ through,
Has left but a scar on my skin.
This poem was inspired through the stitches I received on my thigh due to self harm. When I wore leggings or sweats, the knotted string would poke through the material, reminding me of a garden.
Allesha Eman Dec 2021
Broken words line these open seams
A bleeding heart rests in the palm of hope
You struggle to keep your hold on the ground
All your stitches are open doors
Ready to take in a lonely soul
At the expense of everything that was yours
Påłpëbŕå Dec 2020
/
You cut me

so deep

even stitches

couldn't seal

and now

words bleed

from wounds

that can't heal.
[K]
Sarah Flynn Oct 2020
the nurse gave me lidocaine
before she stitched me up.

she told me that it would
help to numb the pain.

I laughed out loud
at the irony.

honey, don't you see?

I'm already numb.

that's why I'm here
needing these stitches
in the first place.
Christian C Jul 2020
I marveled at the stitches
Held your hand, grip tight like the taut strings carefully unraveled
Clockwork, I tended to the wounds
paler lit just by the moon
Heartwork, I kissed the scars

I numbly focus on the void
Unaided and desensitized to the ceaseless ache
Clockwork, you neglect me till I anticipate I will break
a hollow space carved into my chest darkens day by day
Heartwork, you actively exhibit my unimportance to you

I marveled at the stitches
Silk securing skin, uncertainty in the cell structure’s very safety
Clockwork, you asked for me to tend to the wounds
paler lit just by the moon
Heartwork, you smiled when I kissed the scars
Stitches, Pt. `1
Amy Perry Jun 2020
We stitched a patch together
On my flesh in the shape
Of a cartoon heart.
I would have your heart,
But only a caricature of it.

I’d approach you the first year
As much as you’d approach me.
In that year, you’d stitch me more,
Kissing and caressing me with your
Passionate gift of language.
I asked you to make my stitches
Tighter and more numerous
With your luminous promise of love.

The second year went on like the first.
Less dialogue acquainted me with
Thinking of you like clockwork, like records,
Your sickly, gangrene patch
With familiar stitches from your own hands
Attached to the flesh on my arm,
Reminding me you were there.

On the third year, I drove through the seasons
On a tank of memories I called love.
I sought to find you but my tank was empty,
I walked and took a train, then walked some more,
Towards your hopeless direction,
Only to fall upon my face and become a bust,
Like a watermelon hitting cement.

As time ticked on, I’d say words here and there,
As yours grew fewer and fewer.
I grew used to your ghosts,
Gave them all names.
It’s only just now that I realize what’s been done.
It’s hard for me to come down and sit in this
Cold room with cold ghosts.

It’s only from this moment
That I’ve begun unraveling
All these threads.
I’m not sure what my skin
Looks like underneath.
I undo what’s been fastened to me
Day by day and wince in pain.
So this is what it’s like to breathe.
Laura May 2020
I split apart at the seams
Like a rag doll.
When the fraying stopped  
I stitched myself back together

stitch

by

stitch.


My fingers are too ******,
Sweetheart,
To let you tear me again.
Ig: laura_poetessa
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Loose Knit
by Michael R. Burch

She blesses the needle,
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.

And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits,
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it seems ...

that a little more darning may gather loose seams.

She weaves an unraveling tapestry
of fatigue and remorse and pain; ...
only the nervously pecking needle
****** her to motion, again and again.

Published by The Chariton Review, Penumbra, Black Bear Review, and Triplopia. Keywords/Tags: Addiction, needle, veins, stitches, red, blood, ******, dreams, hallucinations, seams, darning, tapestry
LC Sep 2019
his words are stitched
into the fabric of her soul.
her smile is here to stay.
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