The needle is long and slender, a bony finger. Its tip lined with the dark remnants of blood. Thread the needle with the cherry thread and sew together your face. Stitch skyward, but never to the ground beneath you. 

Once out in the sun's vigor, not a soul can see the hole behind the stitches—a void of dark ocean. 

A hole so wide, it suffocates each heart that enters. It is made of waves, killing from the inside—out. The thing is, the stitches are visible, just simply invisible when the eye is closed. 

When sheltered from the storm and away from the blinking, you then slowly untie. You pick at the end of the stitch, until the point of unraveling. 

Slowly, the fabric holding every part of you together breaks, and the stuffing seeps through the cracks. 

But you must be careful. No longer is it hidden. 

Once the stitches are gone, all is revealed. 

Once the stitches are gone, your thoughts bleed water, drowning you from the inside out. 

Once the stitches are gone, your flesh turns blue. 

Without the stitches, your chest aches, and your teeth shatter in fear.

Without the stitches, you sink into yourself, your heart shrivels.

You become a shell, a doll without stuffing. 

Empty.

Oh, needle why do you have so much power?