Seam from Erin Kearney on Vimeo.
I wonder if you’ll notice, that I’m hanging by a thread. Well, a thread of some sort. Quadruple knot strands should ensure I won’t slip. Am I slipping or slouching? Perhaps some of both. I wasn’t always this way. A line grown out of space. Standing up from the floor boards, at five feet nine inches. There was much more of me, but also much less. I was packaged and pressed with my own business placket.
A modest blue collar that read dry clean only.
I was flipped inside out. Ripped apart at my joints. Re-sewn with new seams. But my thread wasn’t thread. Or not thread from a spool. A thread from a head. I was sutured and stitched with a semi-bent needle; which curved over time as each stitch proceeded. Again, and again until the thread became seen. I was more than apparel, but my form hadn’t shifted. So, I started to lose all that wasn’t sewn in. The sleeves are now gone, and the cuffs cut away. I am no longer shelter, but a hint of me stays. A locker loop’s left near the top of the line. A token of memory that stays by my side. Rooted to floor boards in the middle of space. I used to be hidden, but now I’m embraced. I am my own being, no shirt left to tether. I stand on my own. An edifice towers.