Heart on her sleeve,
inquisitive,
bubbly,
so they say.
But they don’t think
constant stabbing
keeps it
stitched there
while her heart drips across the floor.
Bright oxygen of my soul.
They don’t see these drops—
clear grey welling tears—
dripping through my sleeve,
pulling at the seams,
making stitches split.
Shirt tatters; here
I am.
And we’re all still colourblind.
Do I need
the pain of a seam ripper
fighting skin,
picking out each stitch,
one by
one?
I want the pain. I want the stitches. I want the scars.
The only way I know to let others see
a glimpse of me:
crimson pearls skitter across sticky floorboards,
thrown plaintively out by each simple heartbeat,
lost in the dust.
A careful backstitch,
spun filaments of hope,
threaded salt tears,
steeped dye of deepest love:
into a crimson hue.
Are we all still colourblind?
So a flashing needle,
a mere, single, silvery dart,
weaves a dulled ache through joints and marrow.
Gasping, fluttering, ribcaged canary spools out veins of wire,
weaves its bars.
Infinite thread of determination,
hoping,
hoping wandering light revives colour
to broken eyes,
hoping
to a fault.
And still:
heart
on her sleeve.