stitching

the world clothes us
in skin,
and the only thing we have
is survival.

and upon this skin,
we have created
our own cuts,
and sometimes
somebody else
grips that knife
over our skin,
carving another
design.

and in the mean time
we are searching for
a home,
or a strip of land
to dig
a foundation.

these nights are cold
when the cuts hurt,
and
you just want somebody
who has a bandaid,
or at times,
just a warm body.

then
one morning,
you wake up
alone.

alone once more,
and the cuts still sting
worse than a million
bees,
and this hangover
just doesn't matter.

everybody
is just a stranger
again.

and one day,
maybe,
just maybe,
if we have a strong enough
thread,
we'll have the pockets
to hold onto
what we have.