The Sewing 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.
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.