School children


They are still messes of their parents.
Small figures crouched with baggage,
they are made of
what is learned
and what has been forgotten,
like oil on water.

But they are beginning to see
where they have been sewn together,
beginning to wonder
who it was with the needle.

We avoid them
because we don’t want to remember
how it felt
to feel the stitches for the first time.
We laugh
because we don’t want to remember
how it felt
to rip them open.

Some of us left our skin this way,
letting the cold air sting our wounds.

Some of us simply try to forget
that we stitched ourselves out of school uniforms
and into business suits.

(Featured image from


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