tita
where are ure hands now
i can not find my own
i have tried
not to cry
but i can't crochet like u
knit one
purl two
the cold still rushes thru
the blanket is twelve years long
& strong enuff
to weather his wrongs
i need ure strength
i am
weeping into the batter
catering my sorrow
to a party of
one
the sun
seems so distant
a pigment in the sky
w/ no warmth to console me
there's no controlling
this
charcoal soot
swelling w/ in me
black rings
float
out of my mouth
@ the mention of his name
ashamed of me
how could he be
cruel to be kind
his mind scalds me
w/ his hatred
wretched claims
of deep emotions
aimed
to maim me
save me
a ball of yarn to spin a web
that will catch my grief
before it falls
@ his feet
i am steeped
in
the salt of my tears
seasoned in jeers
stewed in searing oil
& foiled attempts
to annoint myself
w/ honey & mirth
i serve
a succulent sadness
even i can't endure
i implore u
to guide my fingers
they linger
in my pockets
counting themselves over again
one
thru
ten
my needlework
hasn't worked
to cure me of this chill
his ill will has brought me
i need ure recipe
for weepy sentimentality
i will follow to the letter
in the hopes to unfetter
this woe
i will sew
& i will stitch
until my fingers bleed him
into my intricately
embroidered
facade