seamstress work

This was a quiet one,
she thought as she was sewing up,
all the rips and tears
that had pierced her skin.

a quiet battle.
a quiet, inner agony
breaking apart her psyche
from inside out

brain matter becoming
a sharp blade.

imperfections were little knives
thrown at a board
hitting squarely on marks
blood spurted out, fresh wounds
on top of old scar tissue.

But she sat in silence
sewing them up
without a word of judgment
trying to offer
wordless compassion
instead of wordless threats.

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