Stitches.

I want to pick up a sewing needle and thread it with a read thread and puncture my fingertips with it and embroider right through them. I want the needle to cause me pain and the forming droplets of blood to express the emotions I refuse to put in words. I want the stitches that I leave to be the productive forward that I lack in my life. I want the act to be recognized as self-harm and then left to be. I want to be validated and yet allowed to wallow in my anguish until I figure out what it is that I’m going to do. I want to see my mouth shut and only speak through the symbols on paper. And yet I want to truly believe the things that I write. I want my writing to manifest as feelings and life and imbue me with love and drive and desire that I can imagine, but not experience. I want the shame of uselessness to seal my throat shut and become invisible and helpful in my own house - but I want that to last only a moment, so that I could scream my frustration freely again as soon as I don’t feel negligible. I want things to happen. I want to be the one happening. Am I still alive? Do I deserve to be?