The Sewing Machine

The machine,
Pulling and tugging at the squares in my lap.
Each one individual,
But molding to one another.
The ch-ch-chugging of the needle sewing them together.
The sound becomes white noise.
My eyes wander around the white walls of the room.
A sharp prick!
Blues become  purple.
Yellows become orange.
I lessen my foot on the pedal and look down at my finger.
The needle so swiftly, came in and out of contact.
The blood makes patterns on the solid squares.
Beautiful shapes.
I don’t cry.
I put deep pressure back on the pedal
And the machine continues chugging along.
Taking with it the squares
And molding them together again.
I am in fact still human.
Just checking.


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