Little Stitches,
Little Stitches

How you wrought my soul?
In the mirror I stand like an apparition.
Wisps of smoke before the pale bright light
That carves its way across my ghastly brow.

I see the people
They cannot touch me,
Words and body I seem to lack,
Full of laughter without cheer.

Little stitches,
Little stiches

One by one the show,
Like young ants, crushed and killed at birth
And smeared across my lower jaw.
Black marks against the rose.

At dawn I fear the world will see
The black streaks across my face.
I hide my mouth behind my hand,
In hopes of softening the blow.

But my hand is clear and to no avail,
The world can see behind that glass.
No façade can hide the black.
My doors are open, my windows closed, and all I have are

Little Stitches,
Little Stitches

My stitches I fear.
They grow and multiply.
Across my lips and through my nose,
Each one a puncture towards the sun.

Little Stitches,
Little Stitches

They attach and fasten.
To my ear, my eye,
Each white hot and breaking sharp and fast,
Skin stretching and ripping under pressure.

Dripping and slick the blood pours freely,
Respite and sanctuary exists for me no longer.
Ribbons of skin stick to my face like little minnows,
Craving the taste of blood.

OH! How far I have come and lost.
Across my eyes they stretch
I can no longer see the darkness.
An ear I lost and found again.

Little Stitches,
Little Stitches

Across my lips the black strings do stretch.
I scream and SCREAM, SCREAM!
But I say not a single word,
I rip and pull and fight.

Now I see no more, hear not a sound,
I Speak No Evil. Society likes the quiet.
Blood sticking to my face, scrunched in pain.
There is more black than skin, more blood than life.

The people how they love me,
They shake my hand as they pass me on the street.
I have a statue in my honor on the plaza square.
And, my friend, I assure you it’s better this way, with my

Little Stitches,
Little Stitches.