© Carole Suety | Suture
Suture
Carole Suety
I want to heal myself, but I can’t find the pieces.
Suture Cut. In pieces on the pavement, brain over the kerb, my blood oozing under the ambulance’s lights. Cut, cut. A mattress on the floor, single bulb, cardboard box of belongings. I have cleared the walls of posters, emptied away most of my things. That was the old me, the one I left on the operating table. Now it’s just the other me here, with this head and this camera.
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Cut, cut, cut. Nothing to see. Just my own body. Heal, heal, heal. It hurts. It all hurts. My heart, my head, my joints, my extremities burn. I can’t stop moving, trying to find a way to lie down without pain. I stretch, press and pull, but nothing works. Teeth clamped over my lip, back arch clicking and groaning and bones grinding. I want to be alone, but being alone hurts.
I want many things, but I throw them all away. I want to heal myself, but I can’t find the pieces. To heal is to mend, to bring the broken bits together and fix them in place with sticky tape and nails and string. There is the broken me, and one day there will be a new me, poorly glued by my twisted fingers, nothing entirely fitting together. Now there is in-between me. Not one or the other. After the cut, before the healing. A suture. Cut, cut, cut. Heal, heal, heal.
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