I am stitching.
My shoulder hurts. I’ve used it too much.
Nevertheless, I continue to stitch.
I will persist until I am destroyed.
If I were brave enough to stitch through my skin
I would bandage myself in thread
tight like a Pharaoh’s wrappings.
(Perhaps I am like them – a tragic, inevitable consequence of the social norm.)
Maybe if I pricked my skin ten thousand times there would be holes enough for the sickness to leave me.
If I sewed myself up tight and all the glistening gunk left me, all the snotty mucus and the chattering, babbling blood, it would just be this:
Leathery, ancient skin
A cotton cocoon
In a mercerised net.
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