Her heart was like the eye of a needle and I the thread.
Stuck between two fingers, each time I'd get close.
I'd veer too far left or too far right, never in-between.
Nervous in motion A thin thread roped in ambition.
Though I loved her deeply I couldn't get her to see.
No matter how hard I'd try I always missed the loop to her heart.
The cold steel that looped in oval shape.
I've made peace with the thought that nothing lasts forever and though thread.
I've binded myself in knots, wondering if she ever saw me the way that I saw her, everlasting.
Believing that we could be woven in the thickest of bonds.
I loved her with the entirety of my everything I had to give.
Without arms I had nothing to hold above her head.
But no matter how many times I missed her.
Her shoulder became colder and colder.
My thread torn seam from seam.
It wasn't until then that I learned that somethings are better left untouched.
Emotions are sewn into every stitch I make as I remember. Crooked like their crooning voices serenading each other under the blanket of black sky. Off track like their entangled limbs. Long like their memories and short like their fights. She blew out birthday candles and I wished he were there: I didn't ask what she wished for. She dons her black sky dress, cradling their moon. She falls apart in the car as she sings alone. They say he is sleeping I know how he slept: beside her, facing her, living only on her breaths. She checks her phone like they are arguing and he has wrote her yet another novel. I sew her dress up to cover her heart so when it explodes she can salvage it later. She says she does not feel the right to cry I say he loved her and we are eclipsed by silence. By our guilt heavy hearts. She put on the dress today and I pray my work is strong enough to hold her body as she splinters. She quivers like the tires on his car when he would drive too fast, she can not touch him but she needs him to hold her. We hold her. She does not want to make a spectacle. We all want to come home to him in our driveway but we know better. My thread has kept her in place for the day: but each stitch in me is unravelling.
We were flowers, twisted ‘round each other in red thread
speaking soft words under soft rains – hard park benches
pretending we didn’t love what was in the other’s head.
We were flowers, one flower, ‘round and ‘round in red
lipstick that stained and teethmarks from words left unsaid
We were pacing old trodden paths digging old sodden trenches
We were flowers, cut at the stem bleeding love bleeding red
Speaking cold words in floods, sitting on lonely park benches.
I can feel my heart
to a pile of ash.
Or like someone is pulling a thread out of it
And its slowly fraying and dwindling down
Til all that’ll be left
Is a pile of tangled thread
Trying to pretend
To be a heart inside my chest.
I wrote you some poems
I wrote them a lot
I read them today
Because I knew I forgot
I forgot how it felt
With love in my head
I forgot what you were like
Before you unraveled this thread
I read them today
It's not like the stories always said
Things changed quite a bit
...Maybe I don't know what love is
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.
She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.
At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.
What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.
"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.