I remember the sting of it, a pulling sweetness as it moved through. In and out. Over and under. White on silver to red and red and tiny little marks like an x across the lines of him. Together and together and together.
A prick of shining, brilliant and sharp and cold, getting hot, the way metal picks up the spark of touch from skin.
Sewn-up edges. Together.
Whose hand holds the needle and thread?
Rip, tear, rip, tear, and then cut cut cut. Measur and mark. Here the dart, there the seam.
I knot the thread and bite it with my teeth.
Button eyes and French-knot mouth.
Don’t you want to play?
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