Walking.
Talking.
Breathing.
My life was perfect before you came,
and turned it inside out.
The seams exposed.
And you undid it,
you pulled the threads out,
and let me unravel in front of everyone.
You enjoyed it.
I had to sew it back together,
and put patches on the emotions
and the cuts that couldn't heal.
I'm an outsider,
because you failed.
Miserably.
Now they have to see past the scorn,
and past the lies that were sewn back into me.
They can just undo me again,
to see who I used to be.
That's why I hide,
so as not to endure all the pain it takes
to show my face.
I use scarves, and sleeves,
and silk and cashmere,
velvet,
to create the image of not having any stitches
I don't want my older wounds to show.
And I work, so that my little silver needle
does it's job, so I won't be bared.
It sews together lies,
and no one sees the truth
exposed.
