Stitching Ruin into a Heart Broken
the heart flinches closed,
rejecting every mending
forged from steel shadows—
no blade, however precise,
can bring love back from the hate
suturing the heart
with a Black Excalibur
needle of sour spite—
each stitch rips the heart open,
tearing the wound more open
bitter threads pulled through
despair, knots every longing,
regret draws them taut—
anger jerks the trembling hand,
tearing what you hoped to hold
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