My threads are unravelling
No one should see the colour of my lining
Poke me and sew me back up,
Then trim me with scissors, shiny and sharp.
FIlled with nothing but cotton and air,
A silky surface smooth and bare,
Tempting, to stick your needles into me,
Gore me, tear me, rend me
Because there's nothing in me but cotton and air,
I absorb flows on the edge, with my flare,
Lay your sleeping head on me,
Let me internalise your nightmare
Can't hurt
I won't need
I don't bleed
No more words in my
Pincushion heart.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment