The Stitch

Personal experiences

I sit and wonder
 where each day will take me,
For each day is both new,
 and monotonously the same.
A pattern, repeated,
A new stitch,
 like it is a new thread
 but the same needle
 on old, familiar cloth.

Days imprint their
 cruel, unjust words
 upon me, who cannot 
 speak for herself.
The stitch continues
 and occasionally 
 tangles, breaks, twists,
 like the stories I conjure
 in my mind,
 words found,
 then forgotten.

Nonsense, is what they told me
 while laughing,
 tricksters,
And so the thread, the stitch
 burns, continues
 around my mind, heart, lungs.
Its red trail, old and new,
 known but fresh,
 lingers upon a once clean wrist.