needle and thread.

no dentist has drilled my teeth
no awkward positions for my
legs to fall asleep.

my fingers dont feel ten times as big
charred
scarred
those parts of my body no longer feel sewn

the lies have threaded your needle
you call a voice
caring,
soothing voice withheld in the seamstress's hand
bringing together thread
by thread.

patch by patch the outfit completes
no outfit on the market can compete
a delicate hand brushes over the perfect hems
made by the fabrication of the tongue
that seamstress tied

then a new outfit
fabricated by madness and lust
a dreamer's dream visually tangible
but only hours away will another toy
another outfit
marketed by others
then will i lose you once again.


five months later
that feeling comes back,
a new seamstress that no longer ties the tongue
you distribute your lies with
the thread has changed  color
of a vibrant blue;
the chills run down my spine as i
talk to you.

the new design is an old one
reconstructed
into a consumer's desire
to digest the truth now portrayed in the actions
given by the designer

the seamstress did not fail this time;
a tongue not tied is a
dream not dead
but which words have left to be unsaid?


----

I hate this poem. Hate it. But it sort-of describes my relationship.