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“The Seamstress


My spine weak

My voice meek


What I sought,

-is not what I got.


My spirit, my confidence, had begun to rot.

What I had forgotten had returned to squat.


I pleaded for guidance asking, “What should I do?”

but the menders weren’t listening as they once used to


they were circumventing what made me blue

and telling me things that were not true.


blame, misguidance, avoidance was the plot.

perplexed and distraught,

I felt like a crack-pot.


My shame grew hot

twisting my stomach in a knot

igniting the past… igniting what I‘d been taught;


Behind me were the unsettling sounds of the mender licking a thread

I squeezed my eyes tight consumed with dread


The cool needle tip touched my skin;

I cried out as she slid it in


She pressed one hand against my back,

And with the other she tugged out the slack


I swayed with each incision

as she altered the tapestry of my skin

Busily knitting her surreal tales of who she perceived me to have been.


My heart raced; I began to crumble


A hand familiar and careful

lifted a needle threaded with wool

he began to stitch and pull


-ignoring the history of my wounds and holes

-he back stitched over them; disrupting our relationship & rupturing our roles


My voice of resistance was depleted

My sense of self had been defeated


- he extinguished my loyalty and devotion;

-I grew numb; separating from my emotions


I reached the scissors behind my back


clipping right through,

I snipped the yarn in two


The threaded needle descended,

slow motion, as if suspended


The mender grasped for control

But the connection had been severed; he only had that which he stole


I did walk away that day


Although, I was unable to self-console

disassociated from my pain, my story, my soul


-Hannah


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