Stitches

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?

Mine.

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.

Ragdoll me.

Don’t you want to play?