Stitches


Clasp your hands a little tighter:
they say white is the color
of the innocent,
and the pallor of the flesh
stretched over your shaking knuckles
makes you almost virginal.
"Say something,"you beg,
as if the inflections
could take the venom
from your voice.
Keep demanding;
the urgency makes my lips burn
under the stitches weaving them shut.

Beseeching for my words
leaves laughter struggling to escape
through the seams of your impositions.
Instead, I can only smirk
as the icy desperation
trickles into your red-hot voice.

Implore me to speak
and you'll choke on your words,
never realizing
it was you who threaded the needle.

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