Pushing Needles


Woven black, woven dark.

An evening of sepia hiding behind brown curtains.

Warm fingers sliding against the cold of the tall window.

Warm breath condensing into fogs of horror on the cold pane.

Strained eyes glancing at the cloth doll, lying like a carcass on the glass table.

“It’s okay to hate,” she consoles herself, her childish voice trembling in her delicate throat.

Strained eyes blinking to focus, the doll lying like a carcass on the glass table.

Warm breath escaping in laborious attempts through her thin lips.

Warm fingers precariously gripping two slender needles.

An evening of sepia peeping through the curtains.

Woven black, woven dark.