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Beware of *******
Wounds they give
Often beyond stitches
You will bleed
Till you die
Palpebra 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.
JT Nelson Jun 2019
Scars of stitches
Map the years
And my moments of bad
Decisions

A fall here
An accident there
Times when the hurry just
Wasn’t worth it

Two or three stitches
Never more than five
The cuts were
always small

But I hated blood
And needles more
So they were never
Fun.
I am not a poised person
| Nor am I a delight to hear
| But I am a truth warrior
|a knight for deeper meaning
|and a contender for reality
|So I speak my restless mind
|on the matters that matter most
\ and for this I am sutured.
| my mouth sewn shut
| by the red and yellow tape;
|political correctness
/ diminishing the truth
|until nothing is ever said
|And I weep
. Silent tears
Let the truth be known
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