Suture

by Jessica Kraker

I stich myself up with the careful compliments of others. They mend the wounds that re-open every time I look in the mirror. Every morning and every night I see myself tear out the strings that hold me together. A cycle of torn skin and blood and scars that will never heal. But I still stitch them up again and pull tight. I shudder as they close. The skin at the edges is dead and flaking from being punctured so many times by burning needles. I hardly notice the tears that drip down my face. It’s just another day with the same hurts and pains and aches that push on me from the inside, trying to bust me open. They don’t have to try so hard. I’m begging for the bleeding. Only their words make me feel human. Only their words give me a temporary reprieve. They soothe my whirring mind. They can’t see the way the crimson essence oozes down my body. They just see the lies I weave and continue to weave, the string that stitches me up just another fabrication. I wonder where I will get my string from when they leave.