I was stitched together before I could speak. Quiet hands pulled taut the fabric they found soft enough to shape. Somewhere between discipline and survival they chose the gray thread of indifference. I learned the rhythm of needles breaking skin without complaint. I sat still while someone else stitched my outline into something wearable. I wore those early patterns like they were armor. They were tight around the chest. Stiff between the shoulders. My breath caught in threads every time I asked a question. The unraveling was quiet. No dramatic tearing, but frays along the edge, threads pulled by grief and routine until I knew: This was never mine. So I learned to unpick the stitches. Let it breathe. Let air touch what before had never known daylight. Now I stitch slowly. I choose soft, strong thread. Leave seams visible. Never hiding what it costs to live. Now I wear an old dusty coat. It’s not seamless, but something that holds together, because it’s mine.
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Such careful and creative use of metaphors... i was living