I pull the thread hanging
from the hem of my skin,
and start unstitching
myself. The split travels fast
through the epidermis,
revealing every itch from the past,
every future scratched by the hand
of loss, now arduous rashes ingrained
deep within myself resurfacing.
First, pure agony, a repressed roar
piercing the air, then the healing burn
of tears on exposed flesh, like alcohol on
an open wound. A sigh. Relief.
The kind that makes one realize
it’s fine.
It gets better. I pull and pull
the thread further until the pile
on deck becomes as tall as the ship,
the sail of which I sew with my tender
remains and set out on a trip, unafraid,
to face the hurts that await.