Pin prick after pin prick and thread after thread,
we are nothing more then stitched smiles onto burlap faces
that sit on workbenches of lost people.
These chapped-lipped apologies seem stuffed and overflowing,
losing validity with each piece
that hangs out.
The knives protrude from our spines, and though we can't feel the sting,
it hurts to know that someone else does.
Venomous words that are whispered into our matted hair
only to be bitten
into another's soft, warm skin.
It is challenging to be a vessel.
You are left to be an inbetween scene,
not even enough to qualify as filler,
more just hitting pause in a movie as the snake lunges forward.
It is a numbing role as you never get to feel the pain,
or anything at all,
and you never get to give it.
You simply transfer it by muscle memory like leaving a package on the front stoop.
We are never the sender or the reciever but the poor post man in the middle.
I wish that all the poision poured into my threads would sizzle at the fabric
until it is so worn it falls away.
I wish that the crimson thread would turn liquid and pour from me
like water falls of life.
I wish that they would shoot the damned messenger.
Being the vessel almost hurts more then the person on the other end of the rope
because they are allowed to heal.
We get our stitches secured with only more thread and wait to hear the screams
we didn't want to cause.
We lay across the burned, wood table and let the pins poke through,
just wishing our burlap would turn flesh and red would finally flow.
I want to be more
then the voodoo you used us for.