Structural Integrity

The thread is a frayed, disobedient ghost

hovering over the needle’s thin eye.

I’m losing the things that I needed the most

while the bulb in the kitchen starts flickering dry.

My hands are not steady, my vision is blurred,

and the blue cotton hem is a jagged, raw mess.

I sit in the silence, not saying a word,

piercing the fabric in quiet distress.

A stitch is a promise that something will hold,

even when everything’s tired and old.