Chronic.
My skin is felted and my stomach is plied the wrong way.
And yet, I must drive the needle through
Let its hooks catch on my woolen flesh
Tangle my nerves bunched into roving
And spin my veins into yarn
It is an endless task.
But I must keep spinning,
I must keep weaving,
I must keep felting my skin back together, piece by piece by piece by piece
I feel the wool rot.
The usual decompose, the usual dust settling into still twitching muscle
But I am not allowed to slow
To slow is to die.
So the needles still drive through, veins are still spun
And I realize I cannot comprehend eternity.
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Posted Apr 6, 2026, 12:09 AM UTC
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