Stitched Things
We are stitched things, you and I.
Torn cloth sewn by forgotten hands,
stuffed with hunger and stories,
patched with memories too fragile to last.
We are born not of wholeness,
but of need—a hunger older than bodies,
a question older than sound.
Maybe we are not beings.
Maybe we are questions sewn into skin.
Maybe the gods were not creators—
only echoes of the longing that birthed us.
When these bodies fail, when the stitches loosen,
it will not be love that survives.
It will be the hunger.
It will be the ache itself,
asking forever:
Who stitched us?
And why did they leave us empty?
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