by Shabelle Paulino

Your words were the thin thread of suture
that closed my wounds. They were the stitches
that held me together, that stopped me
from bleeding out. They closed a gash
that ran deep into my heart and soul,
and they brought me to safety.

Your smile was the yarn that I wove
into a blanket. The warm protection
from the cold realities of the world.
It enveloped my entirety and carried me
away from my troubles. It made me feel
safe and at home, loved and fearless.

Your hugs were the fortified fabric
of my dress. They were tender and beautiful
and called to me as a siren sings to a lost sailor.
They knitted the trust that I had in you.

And then that beast of genetic disease
stole you, tearing at every seam of my soul.

Maybe if I had been more cautious,
maybe if I hadn’t let you sew my entire being together,
maybe if I had just bled out the pain
then I would know how to approach my frayed ends.

This pain that I carry now
is perpetual and it comes and goes
without indication, without warning,
leaving me empty, questioning
when the next wave will strike.
The waves are random:

a particular song,
the positioning of the moon,
a picture of you,
anything could trigger
my eyes to widen
with sadness and tears.

Instead of finding a place in your arms,
I am smashed against glass,
trying to hug you. The slivers of my pain
stick to the scars on my skin. It has been
one year since your wings were stitched,
but my pain is still the same as the day you left us.

I am now the seamstress of my own life.

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Shabelle Paulino is a senior at NYU SPS studying Psychology. She was born and raised in Washington Heights, a primarily Dominican community. She loves both poetry and fiction and it is not a stretch to say that she loves language.