I like the feeling of stabbing a needle into a pin cushion.
I like the satisfying feel of a sharp, piercing object penetrating through a substance of pure softness.
It feels so good.
It feels so relaxing.
You should try it.
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.
.
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I am a pincushion.
A cushion used for conveniently pinning a seamstress' needles into so to not lose them in the future.
I am a pincushion.
Easily stabbed.
Easily penetrated.
Easily bought.
Easily used.
Every time a seamstress pins and stabs one of her needles into a pin cushion, another burden I must carry for another individual to live a more convenient life.
Since I am a pincushion, of course.
And every time a seamstress stabs one of her needles into a pin cushion and creates a hole in it, another wound and scar is formed that was created from the burdens I must carry to make others happy.
I am a pincushion.
A pincushion with a thousand different needles stab into me like swords piercing through every vulnerability I lay bare for all to see.
I am a pincushion.
A source for others to tell their problems and relay their burdens onto me so that they can no longer feel the weight of it.
I am a pincushion.
Pin your problems on me.
So, I can be the only one to feel its pain.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
