and the threads are stitching me up,
they’re watching me, watching you
watching you, watching me
tie myself up in my own feelings,
an audience of cotton threads
and stomach knots.
So if I want to strip myself of skin,
and frame it,
scream ‘this is me’
but actually be rid of the t-shirt too,
tell me, is that a thing?
Do you think we could fold the eyes away,
bury away my visions with them?
Some things are better left unseen.
I’m undressing my nightmares.
And there you are.