Sewing Box

By Morning Star (May 2021 – Refined for Flow and Voice)

I see it over there.
I see it in the sitting room
while I’m sat on the stair.

A place I often found myself—
Sitting in the window shelf,
Early hours,
hearing you scream.
Crashing tone.
Angry sounds.
Banging doors.

Little one—
I hide alone.

Hope a little deer
doesn’t lose her little smile.
Hoping that the hare is out,
and gently bounces home.
Hoping that the moon still shone,
and owls still listen near.

Staring up
into the moon—
Wish you to return.

WHAT IF SHE’S GONE?

A promise often said
Made a child tremble.
Fear—
of being left
for others’ prey.

When she is gone,
the shadows come.

WHAT WAS THAT?
SHE LEFT THE SEWING BOX BEHIND.
As they may need it...

To slowly stitch up
slices of flesh—
or simply
tie a knot.

So,
let’s stitch up our empty hearts.

Say no more—
I’m through.
Torn, another night
we are
apart.

From what was made
then broke—
when a new life
she tore.

Children.
And we are older—
don’t need another now.

Let’s stitch up the empty heart
that can never heal.

There will always be
an empty space.
That cannot be filled.
Nor be replaced
by any other.
Cannot be bridged
or covered.

And will never heal.

She is gone.
My lovely mother.
Who I couldn’t bear
to be parted from.

She is gone.

Why not leave
my mother?
As we may need her.

Why not leave
my mother?
No—
I chose.
You made me choose.
You asked me,
and I said yes.
Go—I’m fine.

But I meant
don’t go.
I’m alone here.
Don’t leave.
Please—God—
don’t leave the sewing box
lying in the hall.

I’ll have to take the scissors out
and leave a scar
for sure.

Stitches
do not heal
scars
you are afraid to show.

Stitches only make you
see.

All.

Soon—
I’ll have to go.
Now leave.

Or I am to go.
But I may leave
no box.
Nor in a box
shall leave.

Alone.

For now,
she’s gone—
and
I am lost.