The Needle, the Thimble, and the String

The Needle, the Thimble, and the String

The needle.
The thimble.
The string.

You pull—
too far—
and call it reason
when it breaks.

“Thank you” sits on your tongue,
polished,
ready—
never enough.

There was a moment.

You could’ve spoken.
You could’ve given.
You didn’t.

You swallowed it.

Now it lives in you—
heavy,
unmoving—
everything unsaid
pressed into your chest.

You stand straight,
call it balance,
but something in you
is already falling.

You were asked—
once.

Silence answered.

Now a king stands before you,
empty hands,
no blame,
no anger—

only asking
for the love
you kept.

And you—

you have nothing.

Just “thank you,”
thin and late,
slipping through
what’s already broken.

You poor String
You didn’t use
The Thimble
Nor the Needle
The right way

Author’s Note: In this poem, I set the needle, the thimble, and the string on the table the way we lay out apologies we never make—close enough to reach, distant enough to ignore. It is about the quiet cruelty of having every tool to mend what is fraying and choosing, softly, not to pick them up. The tragedy is not in the break, but in the careful, practiced way we let it happen, convincing ourselves that silence is gentler than the stitch.