PoetryOD

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