The Thread

The doctor prepared

the needle. I stared

at my shoulder becoming

an object. The numbing

was working. She threaded

the line. I watched it shed

through my own skin.

Black thread.

Entry and exit.

She said it would be fixed

quick. She said it would scar.

I said everything scars.

This is what you don't expect—

the specific disconnect

of watching your body

become a surface to work on.

Being split open

and closed in the same moment.

The thread is still there.

Under the bandage.

Holding together

what had to break

to be fixed.

I'm a wound

trying to heal

around the thing

keeping me together.