Her name is Stitches and I love her.
She doesn’t believe that – she says it is an improbability.
She doesn’t say impossibility and that gives me hope.

No one but me knows why she’s called Stitches.

I’ve run my hands over her soft white skin,
Flushed with the fevers of midnight.
I’ve touched it.

I’ve let my fingertips explore the hitches in her skin,
Where her body couldn’t quite heal itself.

Old memories of gaping holes and vicious lies.

From her shoulder to her wrist,
From her knee to her ankle,
Any where she can negotiate a knife – she is Stitches.

It makes her cry sometimes.
She says she doesn’t like being a rag doll any more.

They’re old scars, robbing her flesh of its innocence,
Betraying her old soul – etching it out – a tally on her skin.


She draws a thick red line under everything
and tries to start again.

She doesn’t like to be touched some nights,
I see her paper skin crawling at my soft kisses
and roll over to feign sleep.

It’s not her fault, the pain of the scars won’t fade,
The scars that the stitches can’t mend.

Her name is Stitches and I love her.
The girl with the Frankensteined heart.

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