Stiched thoughts

I pull the thread—not through skin, but seams,
where the fabric of your “fine” frays thin.
Each layer, a story dyed in doubt’s indigo,
I unravel the hem of what you’ll never show.

Your beliefs are patched with crooked stitches,
knots of maybe and threads that itch scarlet rage, gold guilt, a teal regret,
I finger the weave like a secret kept.

The needle dips where your silence clots,
seams split to bloom what you’ve forgot,
a slip of hope, rose-pink and raw,
tangled with thorns no one saw.

I sew your fears into something bright
not to fix, but to feel their bite.
Your pride’s a brocade, stiff and grand,
but the seams beneath? All trembling hands.

You say you’re solid, a quilt of steel,
but I find the patches time might peel a cobalt dream, a bruise-green sigh,
the fraying edges where you almost cry.

Is this art or a kind of theft?
To stitch the ghosts you’ve kept unkept?
Yet here, in the cloth your soul has spun,
I trace the hues no sun has sung

the violet grit, the rusted vow,
the warp and weft of your right now.
And when I’m done, I’ll leave a thread
so you might mend what’s left unsaid.