StitchesThePuppet

I woke up in the dark.I always wake up in the dark.This morning, however,was different.I’d hada dream that wasQuite rudely interruptedBy my alarm clock before my armWhipped out and shut ...

The scars in my flesh have almost disappeared, it’s true—The marks of my confusionThe whispered words behind friendly handsAnd the secrets kept by a small pocketknife.The patterns on my anklesThat

My poem isn’t a song—it isn’t supposed to rhyme.And it isn’t supposed to be read isn’t supposed to be pure, heartfelt,or even particularly isn’t supposed to be a dream—it’s supposed ...