I know the angle from which
to pull the threads from my skin.
I know how to twist and anchor them
on shards of my bone,
how to unwind my organs and entrails —
and thoughts —
how to weave them all into jagged tapestry.
It takes practice,
but I've been doing this for awhile.
You do not notice as I spiral my arms
and fling the cloth.
You do not notice as it descends
over your face, torso, feet.
At last, I can comprehend you
through the underbelly of my organs,
through the kinks in my dermis.
You aren't kind,
and you don't love me.
Your words stretch and
distort around the edges.
I don't feel your pulse
or your breath,
but I see you.
Notes: I have to admit that I have judgmental tendencies, and I so want to change that aspect of myself. As always, writing helps me explore and consider the parts of me that are painful to examine.
I've come to realize that my judgments of others are always, always rooted in what I feel is missing within myself. In this poem, I envisioned this phenomenon as a fabric woven from my own body, then tossed over another person. Thus, when I looked at that person, I only saw myself within her — instead of truly seeing her.