Stitches — the Medical Kind

The smell of antiseptic clings to my skin,

as I watch my father's battle begin.

A nurse threads the needle, a swift, silent dance,

blood pools like secrets, caught in a trance.

With every small stitch, I feel him endure,

a punctured hand mended, the flesh torn, unsure.

Moments like these pile heavy in time,

with each passing heartbeat, I’m trapped in this rhyme.

I hold my breath, watch as she closes the seam,

in fluorescent light, all fades to a dream.

I think of our lives, the fragility shown,

stitched up together, yet feeling alone.