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