I felt the knife gash deeply into my forehead. Yeah…this would get my point across. That bitch will really know who she’s fucking with now…..I sit quietly for a few minutes as the blood trickles down my face onto my keyboard, mingling with the fine beard hairs on my neck. I reach to my hat-rack, handily located beside my desk, pulling my finest trilby hat and placing it over my new mark of shame.
i remember the sharp pain in my skin, realizing that it would never be restored to its original condition. there’s nothing wrong with scars, i guess. it just means you were once open, maybe you shouldn’t want to hide it
Stitches I mean that loving you is strange and absorbed by me throughout I mean those special little things that we used to talk about oh no its you again, blessing me with every kiss. tying yourself to me stitch up all the emptiness cause you’re the death of me. Tyin your self to me stitch up all your emptiness cause you’re the death of me.So precious loving with you.
these wounds are not the kind that can be sewn up with stitches. time may lessen the pain. maybe the scars will fade away. they may not. we don’t know. it is too soon to say that yet.
Some comedians are funnier than others, but Rik Mayall always had me in stitches; he still does, if I think back to some of the comedies he was in. He dies recently, which was a shame. He was far too young and far too funny to die. Perhaps being miserable makes you live longer.
She had no needle and no thread to put together the gash he cut across her heart. She slowly came to the realization that this was not an injury a few stitches could fix.
some people have them, some don’t
maybe you hurt yourself, maybe you were just stupid.
without stitches, wounds would not heal properly and we don’t need that.
i have never had stitches. stitches are for bitches. Well i guess not. hopefully i never get them.
but itd be a cool story to tell. i wanted write more so i figured out how a little bug on getting an extra min of time, just submit it without filling in the info and itll make you go back and the clock will reset.
Had me in stitches he did, dunno what he said, it all went black just after he finished talking. But all I knew was that i was still laughing. How many times will I come back trying to find what I had lost, knowing only joy when I left. But why? Why do I laugh and then forget. Am I laughing at nothing?
Stitches.
I rode down the hill, hit the kerb, flat face first dodge my face, palm hitting gravel, ripped open, bleeding.
My mate had jumped out in front, the fool, tried to startle me. I shouldn’t’ve turned away from hitting him.
His mother put iodine on the wound, iodine is pain x10, a magnifying glass for pain rays.
Times almost up. Kept riding. Downhill. Fast.
They look beautiful, join two things and attached. They seem like a synonym to love. Making love is like stitching a wound. A process to heal and survive.
He held the old, ragged teddy in his hand, remembering moments from his own childhood with it as much as Nana’s. She had loved that teddy, but Tom had been less merciful, and the stitches where it had been repaired were in need of repair again. The phone rang.
“It’s Ohara,” the voice said. “I think I’ve found something!”
Stitches are weird. When we break our skin, our skin naturally heals, but sometimes we have to get stitches, which are when a doctor literally imbeds thread into your skin to heal it up. Needles hurt.
Stiches hurt. THey really do. I never got the mbut my brother did when he cut open his finger. He did this by a knife when cutting a bagel. I dont remember anything else about sitches. I never had them. But my mom did on her lip when falling. I think my grandma did too when she fellfrom a tree. I neverneeded stitches. I dont want them. Theyre black and seems painful also scary. Fuck stitches I dont want them, ever ever never ever no I dont want to.
it was hard to count the stitches across the land,
the faults and lines all finally
gave in to the earth.
i think we will have a good year after
we recover.
at least we still have some seeds to sow.
the bleeding will stop soon,
i believe it.
In the kitchen. That’s where it happened. It took a fraction of a second just a few millimeters too close. The blade was sharp. I didn’t even realize how bad it was. Until the blood was staunched enough to reveal the wound. Everywhere it dripped, yet not into the bowl, ironically. 6 stitches later, my finger’s not quite right on the side where it was slashed, a place where it hurt so bad I broke down and asked for pain killers so could fall asleep without the constant ache and throbbing. But I can play guitar and I can still type. So it really is as they say, that time heals and people adapt. Maybe I’m not so good at forgetting though, since I still feel the old pains and all kinds of sharp blades give me added pause for thought, more so than they did before, maybe I see them destroying me in ways I haven’t imagined before, so that every consideration reveals a new horror.
I stepped into the room and was barely able to hold back a gasp. She’d been my best friend since we were children and yet, if I hadn’t known it was her lying there, I don’t think I’d have recognized her. Her body was an abstract portrait of violence; all purples and blues from the bruises and black from the stitches, marred the usual smoothness of her skin.
The pain that one most go through in order to receive stitches must be tremendous. Nothing could be worse than to find out the cut you got requires the sewing together by stitches.
The little boy fell down the stairs and tumbles. The stairs were covered in thumbtacks and paper clips and they tore up his face. He was bleeding all over the place. Then he went to the hospital but they refused to give him stitches cause nation wide wasn’t on his side.
I have had stitches before they’re alright. I got my foot ran over and it hurt a lot. It happened when I was four years old. Stitches are black and they tie the skin together on a wound so it can heal easier. I once had to have stitches near my eye because I was hit with a baseball bat.
He could feel stitches. Stitches everywhere. His side, arms, legs, and even his face. They pull and tear at his skin, making it tight and uncomfortable.
Matt was a shitty driver. On purpose. I often wondered how his father felt about it. Each morning he would walk outside and find new dents. Longer scratches. He really treated that car like shit. Then he almost killed me with it. Driving like an asshole to get a laugh and the next thing I know I am getting plastic surgery.
Lori had me in stitches all day with her spot-on impersonations of everyone in the office. “I don’t think there’s any waaaaaaaay that this plan can be implemented without a coooooooost analysis” she drawled like Mrs. Larken from Finance. “But wouldn’t it be just fab to like, get all dressed up and make a lunch date of it?” she giggled away like Brittney the intern. “I mean who would even notice that we’re gone?” It had been a long time since I felt so relaxed in these four walls and I owed it all to my new friend.
The stitches began to burst. His arm swelled to the size of an eggplant and exploded, blood and marrow flying everywhere. He really wasn’t having a good day.
There was no way that they boy could go home like this. He called his friend’s mother to come check him. It was just a friendly, innocent game of kickball. To his despair, he was told he would need stitches. His athletic career went on hiatus.
Once I turned 15, the stitches started to hurt too much. I don’t understand why she would let me be like this but it happened. Anyways soon there after I remember that at least she let me be at all. The life of a scarecrow sure is boring.
Falling off my bike didn’t hurt nearly as much as you leaving me. It only took 4 stitches, but my heart needed a million. When I saw you in the waiting room, my heart skipped a beat; I knew, this was my one and only second chance.
Stitches are what hold a society together
A society of delicate cotton
Individual threads woven together in an intersection of prowess
Stitches holding the seams together, the thin bonds that could break
At any time
My grandmother was the start or maybe not. Maybe it was her grandmother but I never heard that far back. My grandmother was a tailor in our town. She worked in the dry cleaners buildihg making suits for men. Making clothes to make the business make money was the idea I suppose.
My Mother got the gift. She was a master seamstress. Made me dresses in the 1950s with detail that is undreamed of now. She never would show me how to sew.Neither would my Grandmother. My grandmother also crotcheted like a machine would not show me either. I will make it for you she said and sometimes she did.
It was not that they did not want to share their gift they just did not teach. When I became 30 I learned to assemble draperies, dresses and what else I needed until I observed like so many others you could buy clothes. I never became the artists my Mother and Grandmother were with cloth.I became a counselor. I am teaching counseling now at a University. I too hate to teach. Maybe somethings are not teachable. Maybe you have a gift and you will beome what you are.
run through the marks
of stitches in my skin
covering up the scars
the parted flesh within
exposed by circumstances
wounded by adversities
yet somehow someone managed to fix this
hoping to reveal a beauty within
I worked some stitches into my injured arm. It was bleeding profusely, and the stitches hurt so much, but I worked vigorously, before I lost too much blood from the wound. With grunts and a few tears, I finished the last of the stitches, closing my arm and ending the agony.
You’re acting as though I’m the one that grabbed you by the collar and threw you to the ground. Like I’m the one that beat you down until you were battered and bleeding. That I’m the one who made you end up with stitches.
The sword bit deeply into her flesh, blood splattering everywhere. She hissed in pain and he smirked in satisfaction. In the normal world, the wound would require at least several stitches. But here, the wound would soon knit itself together, faster than it ever could in the normal world, leaving only scars in its place. She knew he liked seeing her scars, but then again, she liked seeing his as well.
embroidery doesn’t work that way
I felt the knife gash deeply into my forehead. Yeah…this would get my point across. That bitch will really know who she’s fucking with now…..I sit quietly for a few minutes as the blood trickles down my face onto my keyboard, mingling with the fine beard hairs on my neck. I reach to my hat-rack, handily located beside my desk, pulling my finest trilby hat and placing it over my new mark of shame.
i remember the sharp pain in my skin, realizing that it would never be restored to its original condition. there’s nothing wrong with scars, i guess. it just means you were once open, maybe you shouldn’t want to hide it
People get hurt so they use stitches. Sounds really painful when you say the word. I think of Stitch from Lilo and Stitch. Slang?
it’s a song- or what i remember of it.
Stitches I mean that loving you is strange and absorbed by me throughout I mean those special little things that we used to talk about oh no its you again, blessing me with every kiss. tying yourself to me stitch up all the emptiness cause you’re the death of me. Tyin your self to me stitch up all your emptiness cause you’re the death of me.So precious loving with you.
these wounds are not the kind that can be sewn up with stitches. time may lessen the pain. maybe the scars will fade away. they may not. we don’t know. it is too soon to say that yet.
Some comedians are funnier than others, but Rik Mayall always had me in stitches; he still does, if I think back to some of the comedies he was in. He dies recently, which was a shame. He was far too young and far too funny to die. Perhaps being miserable makes you live longer.
She had no needle and no thread to put together the gash he cut across her heart. She slowly came to the realization that this was not an injury a few stitches could fix.
some people have them, some don’t
maybe you hurt yourself, maybe you were just stupid.
without stitches, wounds would not heal properly and we don’t need that.
i have never had stitches. stitches are for bitches. Well i guess not. hopefully i never get them.
but itd be a cool story to tell. i wanted write more so i figured out how a little bug on getting an extra min of time, just submit it without filling in the info and itll make you go back and the clock will reset.
Had me in stitches he did, dunno what he said, it all went black just after he finished talking. But all I knew was that i was still laughing. How many times will I come back trying to find what I had lost, knowing only joy when I left. But why? Why do I laugh and then forget. Am I laughing at nothing?
and Liloes
pls stop the time
idk
lol
pls
noooo
stooop
aaaarghjjk..
Stitches.
I rode down the hill, hit the kerb, flat face first dodge my face, palm hitting gravel, ripped open, bleeding.
My mate had jumped out in front, the fool, tried to startle me. I shouldn’t’ve turned away from hitting him.
His mother put iodine on the wound, iodine is pain x10, a magnifying glass for pain rays.
Times almost up. Kept riding. Downhill. Fast.
They look beautiful, join two things and attached. They seem like a synonym to love. Making love is like stitching a wound. A process to heal and survive.
He held the old, ragged teddy in his hand, remembering moments from his own childhood with it as much as Nana’s. She had loved that teddy, but Tom had been less merciful, and the stitches where it had been repaired were in need of repair again. The phone rang.
“It’s Ohara,” the voice said. “I think I’ve found something!”
I was in stitches as I read the 50 Silly stories belonging to my granddaughter. It was so much fun.
Stitches are weird. When we break our skin, our skin naturally heals, but sometimes we have to get stitches, which are when a doctor literally imbeds thread into your skin to heal it up. Needles hurt.
Stiches hurt. THey really do. I never got the mbut my brother did when he cut open his finger. He did this by a knife when cutting a bagel. I dont remember anything else about sitches. I never had them. But my mom did on her lip when falling. I think my grandma did too when she fellfrom a tree. I neverneeded stitches. I dont want them. Theyre black and seems painful also scary. Fuck stitches I dont want them, ever ever never ever no I dont want to.
it was hard to count the stitches across the land,
the faults and lines all finally
gave in to the earth.
i think we will have a good year after
we recover.
at least we still have some seeds to sow.
the bleeding will stop soon,
i believe it.
In the kitchen. That’s where it happened. It took a fraction of a second just a few millimeters too close. The blade was sharp. I didn’t even realize how bad it was. Until the blood was staunched enough to reveal the wound. Everywhere it dripped, yet not into the bowl, ironically. 6 stitches later, my finger’s not quite right on the side where it was slashed, a place where it hurt so bad I broke down and asked for pain killers so could fall asleep without the constant ache and throbbing. But I can play guitar and I can still type. So it really is as they say, that time heals and people adapt. Maybe I’m not so good at forgetting though, since I still feel the old pains and all kinds of sharp blades give me added pause for thought, more so than they did before, maybe I see them destroying me in ways I haven’t imagined before, so that every consideration reveals a new horror.
i got sticches a couple of times once on my wlell twice on my chine trying not to us the backspace wos this link of test will need some stictches too.
I stepped into the room and was barely able to hold back a gasp. She’d been my best friend since we were children and yet, if I hadn’t known it was her lying there, I don’t think I’d have recognized her. Her body was an abstract portrait of violence; all purples and blues from the bruises and black from the stitches, marred the usual smoothness of her skin.
The pain that one most go through in order to receive stitches must be tremendous. Nothing could be worse than to find out the cut you got requires the sewing together by stitches.
Sounds about right.
The little boy fell down the stairs and tumbles. The stairs were covered in thumbtacks and paper clips and they tore up his face. He was bleeding all over the place. Then he went to the hospital but they refused to give him stitches cause nation wide wasn’t on his side.
I have had stitches before they’re alright. I got my foot ran over and it hurt a lot. It happened when I was four years old. Stitches are black and they tie the skin together on a wound so it can heal easier. I once had to have stitches near my eye because I was hit with a baseball bat.
He could feel stitches. Stitches everywhere. His side, arms, legs, and even his face. They pull and tear at his skin, making it tight and uncomfortable.
Matt was a shitty driver. On purpose. I often wondered how his father felt about it. Each morning he would walk outside and find new dents. Longer scratches. He really treated that car like shit. Then he almost killed me with it. Driving like an asshole to get a laugh and the next thing I know I am getting plastic surgery.
Lori had me in stitches all day with her spot-on impersonations of everyone in the office. “I don’t think there’s any waaaaaaaay that this plan can be implemented without a coooooooost analysis” she drawled like Mrs. Larken from Finance. “But wouldn’t it be just fab to like, get all dressed up and make a lunch date of it?” she giggled away like Brittney the intern. “I mean who would even notice that we’re gone?” It had been a long time since I felt so relaxed in these four walls and I owed it all to my new friend.
The stitches began to burst. His arm swelled to the size of an eggplant and exploded, blood and marrow flying everywhere. He really wasn’t having a good day.
There was no way that they boy could go home like this. He called his friend’s mother to come check him. It was just a friendly, innocent game of kickball. To his despair, he was told he would need stitches. His athletic career went on hiatus.
Once I turned 15, the stitches started to hurt too much. I don’t understand why she would let me be like this but it happened. Anyways soon there after I remember that at least she let me be at all. The life of a scarecrow sure is boring.
Falling off my bike didn’t hurt nearly as much as you leaving me. It only took 4 stitches, but my heart needed a million. When I saw you in the waiting room, my heart skipped a beat; I knew, this was my one and only second chance.
Stitches are what hold a society together
A society of delicate cotton
Individual threads woven together in an intersection of prowess
Stitches holding the seams together, the thin bonds that could break
At any time
My grandmother was the start or maybe not. Maybe it was her grandmother but I never heard that far back. My grandmother was a tailor in our town. She worked in the dry cleaners buildihg making suits for men. Making clothes to make the business make money was the idea I suppose.
My Mother got the gift. She was a master seamstress. Made me dresses in the 1950s with detail that is undreamed of now. She never would show me how to sew.Neither would my Grandmother. My grandmother also crotcheted like a machine would not show me either. I will make it for you she said and sometimes she did.
It was not that they did not want to share their gift they just did not teach. When I became 30 I learned to assemble draperies, dresses and what else I needed until I observed like so many others you could buy clothes. I never became the artists my Mother and Grandmother were with cloth.I became a counselor. I am teaching counseling now at a University. I too hate to teach. Maybe somethings are not teachable. Maybe you have a gift and you will beome what you are.
run through the marks
of stitches in my skin
covering up the scars
the parted flesh within
exposed by circumstances
wounded by adversities
yet somehow someone managed to fix this
hoping to reveal a beauty within
I worked some stitches into my injured arm. It was bleeding profusely, and the stitches hurt so much, but I worked vigorously, before I lost too much blood from the wound. With grunts and a few tears, I finished the last of the stitches, closing my arm and ending the agony.
You’re acting as though I’m the one that grabbed you by the collar and threw you to the ground. Like I’m the one that beat you down until you were battered and bleeding. That I’m the one who made you end up with stitches.
The sword bit deeply into her flesh, blood splattering everywhere. She hissed in pain and he smirked in satisfaction. In the normal world, the wound would require at least several stitches. But here, the wound would soon knit itself together, faster than it ever could in the normal world, leaving only scars in its place. She knew he liked seeing her scars, but then again, she liked seeing his as well.