stitches

i can’t stop
myself from
worrying at the
tattered stitches
keeping me
somewhat together
the same ones
i got the last time
i swore it was
the last time
i pulled myself
completely apart
my promethean
soul of scattered
childhood scars
a stained glass
window to the
emptiness behind
color shifting
ocular dismays
i carelessly work
the haphazard knots
unraveling all
the remnants from
never ending battles
against the enemies
whispering from
mirrors and in the
quiet nights spent
longing for something
more than the
overabundance of
nothingness sprawled
across the carpet
overladen
with the stains
of spilled tears
given freely in the
pursuit of hope
jabbing the coarse
black thread into
each new self inflicted
wound winding this
functional corpse into
a marionette for
your pretty fingers
to make dance drunkenly
before the realization
that brief spotlight
is a magnifying glass
in the shaky hand of god
and i am nothing
but an ant seeking
a morsel for a colony
that never wanted me
in the first place

arguing the semantics
of falling apart
and picking the best parts
to smear across the paper
so you think i am
gorgeously repugnant
an oil slick on
a sea of churning bile
refracting the light
in your smile

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