Picking at the Stitches

I wove threads of self-apologies

through rusted armor that fell away

from a frame, finally free

of dead weight.

The cuts weren't clean,

jagged bitter edges

now form scars that hum,

beside bruises,

purple with held in howls.

I run my fingers over puckered

fault lines,

wondering if they remember the quake,

blame stitched tight in their seams.

I tug the strings

and pray I don't come undone,

fearing the unravel,

the break,

the recoil of thread snapping back,

the tug too far;

and I fray

back into the pieces

that they made of me.