• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 08
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Comfort Blanket Stitch

I have a little pattern and it rattles round my head, it tries to keep its timing but doesn’t play quite true, sometimes off a kilter, sometimes back to Go, it wants to rule my life, but I have to slow it down, it makes me do the things I need, to make the right things happen, if I miss a single path, chance can take a turn, I can’t have that, I can’t takes chances, my fingers keep the rhythm, they work and twist, and tug and pull, and keep this body true, single threads like gossamer, needle under skin, pulled so slow so threads don’t snap, the pain will really linger, drawing out the randomness as head thrown back I stifle, cries that take my mind, such exquisite nerve ends, pulling out what’s me, the only time I ever feel, so very much myself, and when I get the threshold, right to that very point, where I am it, the only thing, the centre of it all, right then and only then, do I get to see the pattern, that rattles round my head, the one that tries to govern, which path it says to take.
Needle, thread, cotton bud, to draw the thread around, tissues litter bedroom floor, so very little red, but such a power in stretching out and feel the line pull tight, a sharp intake and long exhale a drug that’s all my own.
And afterwards, hide such small works and wipe the gridlines off, pull down the shirt and up the face that turns towards you all.