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Literature Text
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.
IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII
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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.
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.
IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII
----------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision
i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
ii.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. Y
Literature
dear self,
1.
tomorrow is not worth waiting for.
sure, there will be sunshine (with
a slight chance of rain) and sure,
some kid will be smiling, and yes,
life is still
moving
on,
but it's not like anyone cares.
2.
you just want someone to love you,
misery and tears and all. maybe you
could spend saturdays curled up
under the covers, memorizing
the patterns of breathing. maybe
you could count the seconds but
the problem is that there would never
be enough, the problem is that
there's nothing there to love.
3.
no one is listening.
4.
i'd write you a letter, but
you'd never read it. i'm stuck
screaming into my own heart,
wonderin
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Kathryn O'Driscoll © 2012
Revised copyright 2012, not original date of creation. All rights reserved. All the materials contained in my deviantART gallery may NOT be used, reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission, however feel free to contact me should you desire to use my work - as I love to share.
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Artist's Comments:
Read by ~SophyLa from #Elocutionists here <3
Dedicated to all the Stitches - every last one of you.
Comments178
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Overall
Vision Originality Technique ImpactThis was and still is one of my most favorite piece. It captures the vulnerability of each and every one of us in a subtle way; not being overly concerned with specific. This gives the reader a chance to interject and personalize the piece.
I love how we are given minuet insight as to why the women is called Stitches, but are reminded that only the speaker knows the real reason. In a way it preserves Stitches' uniqueness.
I also appreciate the vision you paint with your words describing Stitches. You show that the scars run along the entirety of her body and give insight on how they effect her emotionally. Nicely done all and all.