My needle,

Your punctures never sewed worth, 

Never bore any threads

Each break through my fabric,

Simply piercing for the sake of pain

A nonsensical agony

Born of your own wounded soul

My needle,

I bitterly watched as you tore me

Ripping through my youngest self

My fragile-being left to be manipulated

In the wicked wrath you call a game 

Your fickle mind couldn’t be bothered

To make sense of my desperate pleas 

But, my needle,

You didn’t always evoke such torment

Your nurturing appearance 

Nothing but a guise for your calculated attacks,

Masking the malice of your soul 

Deceiving my naive self into believing

You could ever fulfill your charade of protection 

My needle,

Were your attacks laced with intention?

I think not,

But perhaps my naivety shines once more, 

A fool to ignore a method behind the madness

Yet, my needle,

while you carelessly disassembled me,

I silently attached a thread to you

I see it now as inevitable, 

A thread formed of my willful strength,

So desperately pieced together

My needle,

You were too self-absorbed, weren’t you?

To notice a thread follow each rupture  

To notice my fabric become reinforced

To notice my once fragmented self

Would be maimed no more

My needle,

In spite of you, yet also because of you,

These threads weave my soul together

Carefully crafting my identity 

With a vigorous energy of strength,

Singing the indignant song of your cruelty

My needle,

Time has gifted me wisdom,

And with it, I hold forgiveness

And with it, I hold lovingly the threads

You so recklessly pierced into me