stitches

i found a square of fabric.
the corners were damaged--
the border had been removed.
somebody did not like it.

i found a spool of lace.
its intricate pattern
embraced the ripped patch
with such tenderness.

i found a strand of thread.
nobody had used it before.
it seemed the perfect length
to mend this tattered rag.

i found a needle.
sharp, new.
sure to pierce the fabric
in all the right places.

i threaded the needle.
i could not sew
one straight stitch.
the needle
lost its gleam--
my unclean hands
tarnished it.

the needle stabbed
through my calloused fingertips.
ruby drops beaded.
pooling over shallow ridges,
they slipped from my grasp
and steadily crept along the
unstable fibers.

crimson corrupted
the branching tendrils
of pure white,
hissing lies into
the core.
the droplets,
they seeped through and soaked me.

carmine traced
the complex chain
of delicate lace,
its doublespeak curling through
the labyrinth.
the droplets,
they seeped through and soaked me.

i am a square of fabric.
my corners are damaged--
my border has been removed.
somebody did not love me.