II

Meadow,

I shouldn’t pull the thread.

I am oscillating between violence and amity. I ache for dissection—splitting, raw and gaping, baring tissues and fibres, a testimony to my capacity for vulnerability. I long for stitching. Dermis and nerve endings, bound by thread, interlacing and fortifying, solidifying that I won’t fall apart again. Measurable proof I am capable of healing. Somewhere in this dichotomy, validity begins to coagulate, thick and sluggish.

Striving to not pull the stitches from the skin, to finally let the epithelial seal take hold. Still, something in the prolene calls to me, reverberating through neural pathways, embedding itself into the core of my consciousness. All I can think of is the thread. Unaware, I am unravelling—routine execution, devout fingertips undoing weeks of proliferation and maturation, dragging me back to hemostasis.

Depleted of plasma and platelets, I am cold and leaking. Chemical comfort, sponsored by dopamine and norepinephrine, takes over, and finally, I can find benevolence. Devotion is woven into every prolene fibre. Why can I only care for myself when I am bleeding?

There is a difference between pain and love, even if the oxytocin swears they feel the same. Neurotransmitters are fickle and cannot be trusted. Vulnerability cannot be extracted from torn tissues and frayed fibres. Validity isn’t measured in prolene. My worth cannot be tied to the unravelling of my own skin. Not all threads need to be plucked.

Yours, Dorothea B