A seamstress sits in my centre

She leans against the walls of my gut

She stitches the bits that are damaged

By heartbreak and cigarettes

She watches me and works

Alters bits of skin that don’t fit

Colours the parts that have faded

She climbs over my arteries

Rests her palms on my fragile heart

Her warmth helps it beat again

She is a mother

A lover

A doctor

A seamstress

She has built a house in my pharynx

The smoke from her chimney helps me speak when I’ve lost the words

Her breath reminds me to breathe when my lungs have grown tired

I like to think she is always there

Threading and pulling

Fixing and mending

She is with me

The Seamstress of my body