I stitch tiny assurances into a straitjacket of adoration. I craft clothing laced and weighted with great care and intent. I end up wearing it all myself. Like the Junk Lady in the Labyrinth.
The walls of my workspace are draped somber with garments that shine so brightly my ribcage aches with joy.
All the clothes are marred from my amateur's hand. I cannot sew carefully enough. Tiny little tears shout at me, laying plain my unprofessionalism.
I am not gentle enough.
The rips in the fabric aren't mine. I see the rage of a drunken lover in the loose ends.
Words and feelings and ideas are meticulously chosen. I select each thread with the consideration of a caretaker. To prevent snags, rends and ill-fitting pinches. I'm bent under the gravity of calm anxiety as I labor over every article. They used to be regalia of pristine silver, spun for a goddess. I save the purest yarn for only the hems, now. I've switched needles; from frenzied desire to determined endurance.
I do worry I'll run out of threads some day. My fingers are scarred from the effort of hundreds of pinpricks.
All They want is a strangling blanket. A quilt large enough to hide in. Be lost under. I don't know how to build one. I lack the patience and the batting.
10:43 p.m. - 2014-06-02
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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