maybe it is that I can’t weave or sew
hands wave in circles to fashion our futures
thread embedded in feelings I don’t know
again, the Lady in red in need of sutures
on the corners when we seek company
the familiar pattern and needles wait
cheap tapestry touted as luxury
leaves me unable to fathom my fate
my arm she-handled ,“You have good veins”
“Worthless” my pulse whispered under the tie
and slowly she drew out that which remained
“It’s fine”–but an exhale, a reflex lie
Matted love knots bind and clot my heart
Bleed me of misery, donate my art
