He looked at her with a frown on his face. There was something sad about the way she smiled now, with the curvature of her lips no longer smooth like they used to be. It was beautiful, he decided. Tilting his head to the left he pushes the needle with the last of the thread through her lips and stitches them together for the final time. Beautiful, she was simply beautiful.
I hate stitches, when I was around seven years old I had to get stitches after my appendix decided that it was no longer happy about being inside of my body. Thusly I had to get it removed and this caused the issues of having stitches. Which then caused pain while being removed. This is why I hate them.
Pain.
It hurt so much.
It weaved throught my skin.
My hands tensed as I lay on the bed.
The sheets curled up at the end.
My hair lay beside my shoulders, like waves of gold strings.
Dry blood was splattered across my arm.
The spots danced across my eyes.
But in the end, it always could be worse.
He woke up with stitches on his abdomen. The red, gaping, pus-covered wound was now zipped up neatly in a nice little toothy package. It was a closing on his body. He was complete.
Her midnight meditations helped her somewhat, but they were like stitches in a wound. She had resubmerged herself in the real, awful world too soon, and consequently begun bleeding again. She sat in her creaking office chair and stared at the papers she had to file for minutes at a time, seeing them crumple and fray as she sat on her hands to keep them from twitching.
There are stitches in those vertebrae that even I can’t explain. It was on a moss-covered path that I last recall anything, and woke up to what felt like a thousand spiders having engorged themselves in my spine, working long and hard to sew me up from an injury even I didn’t know about.
You pick at the black thread in your skin and wince. It hurts. You didn’t even need them. You don’t know why you have them. You can’t remember getting them. You don’t know who gave your them. You just know that there are stitches in your arm and no matter how much your pick or scratch or snip or cut, they won’t
come
out and
it terrifies you.
Stitches I called him. He was my first zombie I had reanimated… Well at least I assume he was a he the grave said “William” so time will tell how useful he will be I sent him off to guard the ritual site. My lord will be coming soon all must be ready no one will stop us this time.
Every time the needle went in, I winced and bit my tongue, drawing blood as it did the same. How could something so small could so much pain? It wasn’t just the sharpness of the steel, it was the way it wormed beneath the skin, like a parasite scuttling beneath my soft exterior to a warm and juicy home that it had not been invited to. I bit harder.
the stitches in my arms hurt ectremly badly after I fell off my bike. I was unsure of the seriousness at the time, but later wold go on to relaize I needed to go to the hopsital. I wan’t fond of the bills I would have to pay, but I went ahead and accpted the fact I needed the surgery to correct my arm. In the end I was really hurt.
They’re annoying and ugly and they represent an event of an accident. Or maybe a heartbreak, or a tragic love story that can’t be mended.
It’s a represenation of a lot of things, but I know that I can’t do this because im panicking and i dont know hwat to o anymore fjdjbjnank ugh this is great omg shshpum stitches are awesome yay
I fell down stitches – in my chest but in the smile – my fake, fake smiles, stitched together in a comical mask of pain, masking the scars that would soon be etched over my chest, my heart, my pride. A grin, twisted stitched up smear.
every day that i’m without you i feel my heart break a little bit more, and it’s beginning to feel like i have nothing left, like my chest davit holds lungs and other organs but the heart that was once there is left in shambles in all the tear stained pillow cases in my bed. i want you back, i want you to show up,unannounced, and find all those tears and all those shambles and put me back together. if it takes a million stitches or just one kiss, i’d take any of it to have you back.
The cut looked like it could use a couple of stitches, but Jack didn’t have time for that. He rummaged through an old junk drawer and found a half used tube of Super Glue. “That should take care of it,” he thought.
When I was a child, I was enjoying some quality time with my parents when I tripped, fell, and hit my head on a sharp corner of my parents’ bed frame. It was very close to my eye. I’m blessed to not be blind today. I did, however, require stitches. It was a bad day.
Mothers usual frantic reactions are heard by no one under the cacophony of the hospital atmosphere. I look down at my blue shirt feeling the darkened damp fabric against my body. I was really bleeding. The nurse, an older male, pushes my wheelchair down the hall, ethanol filling my nostrils, mixed in with the metallic smell of my blood against my face. My keeps word vomiting, “Oh dear, Oh Eric, why? Why did you go over? Doctor, is he going to be okay? Is he brain damaged?” She says all this really fast, not giving anyone,even the doctors the chance to speak.Thanks mom. Thanks for the anxiety. “Ma’am, ma’am, please wait in this room,” The male nurse says, he’s a big dude, when he’s not hunched over a wheelchair, making my mom look small and frail next to him.
“Fill these out.”
“Well, can you tell me if he’s going to be okay?”
“He’ll need stitches.”
Sweet.
Bobby and I met up at McGulvers park; something new for a change. Behind the park lies a house whose once white wooden exterior has been weathered and frayed by natural causes, and there the decrepit house stood in shambles, casting it’s shadow over the playground. Bobby was attracted to it.
“Don’t be a pussy”, he says, walking with confidence across the green grass toward the abandoned house. “Scared of ghosts or something?”
I followed, knowing that Bobby would make-up some story to the other boys in class about my lack of courage. I couldn’t let that happen. Bobby crawled under a loosened part of the wired fence, snagged his shirt and kept on going. I followed suit. The house smelled damn, sour, much like how grandma’s breathe smelled when she was in the hospital the last time.
I was a bit frightened, but paradoxically, the house was calming too as if the memories of good times still clung to the drooping floral wallpapers. There weren’t much furniture around, except broken pegs and white fabric lying around. There were a few picture frames left over; photographs of anonymous faces still smile trough layers of dust. At this point, I’ve lost Bobby. I called for him and got no reply. A creek from the ceiling gave me a hint that he went upstairs. I began to approached the stairs, eyes fixed on the dark abyss on the top landing. I call for him again. No response. At this point my heart beats, hating that Bobby is playing hide and seek with me. I begin to ascend the steps, every step a creek and it happened fast. I heard a snap below me, then a crash and rustle and crunch.
Bobby came around – he was upstairs – laughed and helped me out of the staircase.
“Dude, you’re bleeding.”
I touch my forehead.
“Whoa, that’s deep.Maybe you’ll get stitches!” He shows me his, thin pink marks along his shin.
This was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. Seriously. It had me in stitches. In fact, because of that incident with the threshing machine a few weeks earlier, my stitches actually came undone, burst, and caused me intense pain. But heck, was it funny.
I showed him the lower side of my jaw. “Three,” I said. “You?”
He shook his head. “I got off easy.” His hand was trembling against my arm. He was looking out the window, his legs propped haphazardly against the stool that served as his ottoman. “Do you think Amy will be okay?”
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. She had been cut up badly, and if nothing else, she would be scarred permanently.
Looking down at the stitches on her arm, she still couldn’t fathom what she had done. It wasn’t that bad, wasn’t that deep, at least that’s what she told herself. Maybe if she had never tried it in the first place, she wouldn’t be here right now. If she had never purposely cut herself before, maybe she wouldn’t have had the courage to pull that knife across her wrists in an attempt to end her life.
When I was a child I stepped on glass. It cut my foot, I can’t remember which one but I remember I had to get stitches. I was only 3 or four but I never wore shoes. I thought about my cat while getting them so it would hurt less.
Scars are stories and the wounds of the past, present and the unknown, they follow us throughout our lives detailing our struggles, intertwining with our stories of the new and our legacies of days past. The stitches try to keep us held together neatly, when we don’t think we can, it doesn’t take away the pain or the memory, so I’m not sure whether it’s just like a Mother’s kiss or genius.
There isn’t much to say about the individual parts as there is to say about the whole. It is because of stitches that we become greater than, more. Needle and thread do we go. And, come out
i had bad wound so i really need some stitches
but they hurt and i am afraid
afraid to either leave some typos or to cry
please reader, help me !
MOMMMMMYYYY §
I was going to the shop when I noticed that my clothes were not the same. Some of the stitches had come off. All these years, I had been wearing the same coat. It was a gift from my wife.
They were in stitches after the run they just had. This was it this was how they quit their job. By telling off the boss taking a couple pizzas and running to the nearest park. She loved this park. It had the circle of trees in it that always made her hopeful.
A man once said, you will never get over pain if you wouldn’t let it heal. Doctors say, stitches are the way to go. I then told them, I just simply don’t care. Let it bleed. It makes me feel that i’m still human.
I gasped in pain as the barbed wire sliced through my skin, like a knife through butter. It was deep, I could feel the blood pouring down my calf, over my ankle and trickling under the arch of my foot. I would need to be sewn up. Sewn up like when I was 5 and i got a tear in my favourite pair of jeans and I cried like a baby until my mother got out her thread and needle, sewn up like my ragdoll when her eyes fell off cause i loved her so much.
It is rather funny how time seems to pass by. It passes by and changes everything. Seeing the way people change is quite bizarre and leaves me with a strange feeling that i can’t quite identify. Everything seems to be moving while all i do is think of this little world of mine. All i do is think and imagine. It’s all about story worlds to me. And yet, i’m thinking, what about me and the relationship between me and the world i live in, the world from which i take only the elements that i like and can relate to? Am i not seeing something? I feel like there is something that needs to be done. Is it about me? Do i have anything to come to terms with? Do i have any wounds that need stitching? Am i just oblivious to anything? What’s going to happen to me? And what is with all this? Whenever i take a good look at the things in this mundane world i somehow lose myself in.. mundane feelings? Of weakness? Of ignorance? Of stupidity? Although, to a certain extent, stupidity is not only a mundane trait? I’ve heard so much, i’ve also seen and read quite a bit, but suddenly i realize that i rarely ponder over everything. Is it just a mind play everyday? Am i even here? Yes, i am. But what am i doing?
In and out, and in and out.
The needle went, deft and perceptive, working fluidly.
Amidst the cries of hurt and apprehension,
stitches were over, healing for now.
A tear-laced smile, a laugh through a catching throat.
Reassurance, relief, remnants of pain.
But it was done, stitches were made,
Give it some time, only slight scars will remain.
stitces are used for stpopin bleedin and preventin bacterial infection and preventin viruses from enterin te body trou te blockae of uman skin . stitces are also used in surjery to elp retract te skin back into place after an operation in wic a ole as been put inside te uman body. obviously due to appearance and p
He lumbered along the beaten path
his grunts and groans could be heard for miles;
people avoided him, steering for grass,
eyes downcast, face devoid of smiles…
He looked at her with a frown on his face. There was something sad about the way she smiled now, with the curvature of her lips no longer smooth like they used to be. It was beautiful, he decided. Tilting his head to the left he pushes the needle with the last of the thread through her lips and stitches them together for the final time. Beautiful, she was simply beautiful.
Oh the threads that mend my skin. Threads that close the breach into my body. Threads that fasten my skin like leather.
I hate stitches, when I was around seven years old I had to get stitches after my appendix decided that it was no longer happy about being inside of my body. Thusly I had to get it removed and this caused the issues of having stitches. Which then caused pain while being removed. This is why I hate them.
Pain.
It hurt so much.
It weaved throught my skin.
My hands tensed as I lay on the bed.
The sheets curled up at the end.
My hair lay beside my shoulders, like waves of gold strings.
Dry blood was splattered across my arm.
The spots danced across my eyes.
But in the end, it always could be worse.
He woke up with stitches on his abdomen. The red, gaping, pus-covered wound was now zipped up neatly in a nice little toothy package. It was a closing on his body. He was complete.
Her midnight meditations helped her somewhat, but they were like stitches in a wound. She had resubmerged herself in the real, awful world too soon, and consequently begun bleeding again. She sat in her creaking office chair and stared at the papers she had to file for minutes at a time, seeing them crumple and fray as she sat on her hands to keep them from twitching.
There are stitches in those vertebrae that even I can’t explain. It was on a moss-covered path that I last recall anything, and woke up to what felt like a thousand spiders having engorged themselves in my spine, working long and hard to sew me up from an injury even I didn’t know about.
when I was young I had to get stitched I was 7 years old and i fell out of a tree.. My mother took me to the hospital where i got 8 stitches.
Oh how that boy
makes me laugh
his faces –
him in all his clever
merely eight-years-old
and I am so thankful
that he has me in stitches
and that he
still holds
my hand
while
I
laugh
laugh
laugh.
rough rigidity and rigid shoots of darkness, connecting one side to others, holding together the sides
I got 10 stitches.
You pick at the black thread in your skin and wince. It hurts. You didn’t even need them. You don’t know why you have them. You can’t remember getting them. You don’t know who gave your them. You just know that there are stitches in your arm and no matter how much your pick or scratch or snip or cut, they won’t
come
out and
it terrifies you.
Stitches I called him. He was my first zombie I had reanimated… Well at least I assume he was a he the grave said “William” so time will tell how useful he will be I sent him off to guard the ritual site. My lord will be coming soon all must be ready no one will stop us this time.
Every time the needle went in, I winced and bit my tongue, drawing blood as it did the same. How could something so small could so much pain? It wasn’t just the sharpness of the steel, it was the way it wormed beneath the skin, like a parasite scuttling beneath my soft exterior to a warm and juicy home that it had not been invited to. I bit harder.
You can be in them, surrounded by them, healed by them, have them mistaken for witches.
the stitches in my arms hurt ectremly badly after I fell off my bike. I was unsure of the seriousness at the time, but later wold go on to relaize I needed to go to the hopsital. I wan’t fond of the bills I would have to pay, but I went ahead and accpted the fact I needed the surgery to correct my arm. In the end I was really hurt.
Stitiches.
They’re annoying and ugly and they represent an event of an accident. Or maybe a heartbreak, or a tragic love story that can’t be mended.
It’s a represenation of a lot of things, but I know that I can’t do this because im panicking and i dont know hwat to o anymore fjdjbjnank ugh this is great omg shshpum stitches are awesome yay
I fell down stitches – in my chest but in the smile – my fake, fake smiles, stitched together in a comical mask of pain, masking the scars that would soon be etched over my chest, my heart, my pride. A grin, twisted stitched up smear.
every day that i’m without you i feel my heart break a little bit more, and it’s beginning to feel like i have nothing left, like my chest davit holds lungs and other organs but the heart that was once there is left in shambles in all the tear stained pillow cases in my bed. i want you back, i want you to show up,unannounced, and find all those tears and all those shambles and put me back together. if it takes a million stitches or just one kiss, i’d take any of it to have you back.
Press, push, pull.
Press, push, pull,
Repeat.
Press, push, pull,
Press, push, pull,
And bleed.
The cut looked like it could use a couple of stitches, but Jack didn’t have time for that. He rummaged through an old junk drawer and found a half used tube of Super Glue. “That should take care of it,” he thought.
When I was a child, I was enjoying some quality time with my parents when I tripped, fell, and hit my head on a sharp corner of my parents’ bed frame. It was very close to my eye. I’m blessed to not be blind today. I did, however, require stitches. It was a bad day.
One, two, three, four, five…
The numbers running through my mind as I counted the black stitches running over her coco colored face.
Mothers usual frantic reactions are heard by no one under the cacophony of the hospital atmosphere. I look down at my blue shirt feeling the darkened damp fabric against my body. I was really bleeding. The nurse, an older male, pushes my wheelchair down the hall, ethanol filling my nostrils, mixed in with the metallic smell of my blood against my face. My keeps word vomiting, “Oh dear, Oh Eric, why? Why did you go over? Doctor, is he going to be okay? Is he brain damaged?” She says all this really fast, not giving anyone,even the doctors the chance to speak.Thanks mom. Thanks for the anxiety. “Ma’am, ma’am, please wait in this room,” The male nurse says, he’s a big dude, when he’s not hunched over a wheelchair, making my mom look small and frail next to him.
“Fill these out.”
“Well, can you tell me if he’s going to be okay?”
“He’ll need stitches.”
Sweet.
Bobby and I met up at McGulvers park; something new for a change. Behind the park lies a house whose once white wooden exterior has been weathered and frayed by natural causes, and there the decrepit house stood in shambles, casting it’s shadow over the playground. Bobby was attracted to it.
“Don’t be a pussy”, he says, walking with confidence across the green grass toward the abandoned house. “Scared of ghosts or something?”
I followed, knowing that Bobby would make-up some story to the other boys in class about my lack of courage. I couldn’t let that happen. Bobby crawled under a loosened part of the wired fence, snagged his shirt and kept on going. I followed suit. The house smelled damn, sour, much like how grandma’s breathe smelled when she was in the hospital the last time.
I was a bit frightened, but paradoxically, the house was calming too as if the memories of good times still clung to the drooping floral wallpapers. There weren’t much furniture around, except broken pegs and white fabric lying around. There were a few picture frames left over; photographs of anonymous faces still smile trough layers of dust. At this point, I’ve lost Bobby. I called for him and got no reply. A creek from the ceiling gave me a hint that he went upstairs. I began to approached the stairs, eyes fixed on the dark abyss on the top landing. I call for him again. No response. At this point my heart beats, hating that Bobby is playing hide and seek with me. I begin to ascend the steps, every step a creek and it happened fast. I heard a snap below me, then a crash and rustle and crunch.
Bobby came around – he was upstairs – laughed and helped me out of the staircase.
“Dude, you’re bleeding.”
I touch my forehead.
“Whoa, that’s deep.Maybe you’ll get stitches!” He shows me his, thin pink marks along his shin.
This was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. Seriously. It had me in stitches. In fact, because of that incident with the threshing machine a few weeks earlier, my stitches actually came undone, burst, and caused me intense pain. But heck, was it funny.
“How many stitches did you get?”
I showed him the lower side of my jaw. “Three,” I said. “You?”
He shook his head. “I got off easy.” His hand was trembling against my arm. He was looking out the window, his legs propped haphazardly against the stool that served as his ottoman. “Do you think Amy will be okay?”
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. She had been cut up badly, and if nothing else, she would be scarred permanently.
Looking down at the stitches on her arm, she still couldn’t fathom what she had done. It wasn’t that bad, wasn’t that deep, at least that’s what she told herself. Maybe if she had never tried it in the first place, she wouldn’t be here right now. If she had never purposely cut herself before, maybe she wouldn’t have had the courage to pull that knife across her wrists in an attempt to end her life.
When I was a child I stepped on glass. It cut my foot, I can’t remember which one but I remember I had to get stitches. I was only 3 or four but I never wore shoes. I thought about my cat while getting them so it would hurt less.
Scars are stories and the wounds of the past, present and the unknown, they follow us throughout our lives detailing our struggles, intertwining with our stories of the new and our legacies of days past. The stitches try to keep us held together neatly, when we don’t think we can, it doesn’t take away the pain or the memory, so I’m not sure whether it’s just like a Mother’s kiss or genius.
Stitches.
There isn’t much to say about the individual parts as there is to say about the whole. It is because of stitches that we become greater than, more. Needle and thread do we go. And, come out
i had bad wound so i really need some stitches
but they hurt and i am afraid
afraid to either leave some typos or to cry
please reader, help me !
MOMMMMMYYYY §
I was going to the shop when I noticed that my clothes were not the same. Some of the stitches had come off. All these years, I had been wearing the same coat. It was a gift from my wife.
They were in stitches after the run they just had. This was it this was how they quit their job. By telling off the boss taking a couple pizzas and running to the nearest park. She loved this park. It had the circle of trees in it that always made her hopeful.
A man once said, you will never get over pain if you wouldn’t let it heal. Doctors say, stitches are the way to go. I then told them, I just simply don’t care. Let it bleed. It makes me feel that i’m still human.
Stitches. So many stitches. It really was not my best idea to ride off of the roof and into my pool on my bike. I guess I’m getting what I deserve.
I gasped in pain as the barbed wire sliced through my skin, like a knife through butter. It was deep, I could feel the blood pouring down my calf, over my ankle and trickling under the arch of my foot. I would need to be sewn up. Sewn up like when I was 5 and i got a tear in my favourite pair of jeans and I cried like a baby until my mother got out her thread and needle, sewn up like my ragdoll when her eyes fell off cause i loved her so much.
It is rather funny how time seems to pass by. It passes by and changes everything. Seeing the way people change is quite bizarre and leaves me with a strange feeling that i can’t quite identify. Everything seems to be moving while all i do is think of this little world of mine. All i do is think and imagine. It’s all about story worlds to me. And yet, i’m thinking, what about me and the relationship between me and the world i live in, the world from which i take only the elements that i like and can relate to? Am i not seeing something? I feel like there is something that needs to be done. Is it about me? Do i have anything to come to terms with? Do i have any wounds that need stitching? Am i just oblivious to anything? What’s going to happen to me? And what is with all this? Whenever i take a good look at the things in this mundane world i somehow lose myself in.. mundane feelings? Of weakness? Of ignorance? Of stupidity? Although, to a certain extent, stupidity is not only a mundane trait? I’ve heard so much, i’ve also seen and read quite a bit, but suddenly i realize that i rarely ponder over everything. Is it just a mind play everyday? Am i even here? Yes, i am. But what am i doing?
In and out, and in and out.
The needle went, deft and perceptive, working fluidly.
Amidst the cries of hurt and apprehension,
stitches were over, healing for now.
A tear-laced smile, a laugh through a catching throat.
Reassurance, relief, remnants of pain.
But it was done, stitches were made,
Give it some time, only slight scars will remain.
stitces are used for stpopin bleedin and preventin bacterial infection and preventin viruses from enterin te body trou te blockae of uman skin . stitces are also used in surjery to elp retract te skin back into place after an operation in wic a ole as been put inside te uman body. obviously due to appearance and p
He lumbered along the beaten path
his grunts and groans could be heard for miles;
people avoided him, steering for grass,
eyes downcast, face devoid of smiles…