He is pulling shoe laces through my skin with his celestial fingers to make the thread lift, recoil and tug my already bruising flesh and make a patchwork quilt of my sore body. He practices needlework and upholstery and makes a masterpiece of my wounds. His hands play God at his own game and beat him. And so he rips and grips my shell, pulls stiff wrinkles from ribs and dimples from hips to make a more perfect me. In his own image.
