Unstitched

The gown hangs loose,

threadbare in the hospital light,

back open but barely tied,

a fragile shield

against the sterile chill.

It feels like skin

worn backwards,

exposing more than it covers,

a fabric thinned by use and time,

creased with whispered fears.

Hands fumble with the strings,

the knot a small battle

against the weight of everything else.

There’s a loneliness stitched in these folds,

a vulnerability folded flat

like the quiet between breaths,

a slow unraveling

of privacy and pride.

I watch the pale shoulders

under thin cloth,

not quite hiding,

not quite whole.