you’ll need soft, thin muslin and a needle and thread.
trace him out with a crayon. cut with a steady
hand. cut with the sharpest scissors you own. my mother
always said, you have to make it so your seams don’t show.
that means tiny stitches. that means slow going
and a sure needle.
take your time. soon you’ll sew up all your heartbreaks
fill him. fill him with beans, kernels, seeds: something
organic, something hard, like he was. stitch him tight up
the back. let your fingertip worry the seam like you used
to stroke his spine.
i wouldn’t suggest kissing him–he’s cool to the touch, all
lumps and cotton when your lips only remember silk–
but there’s no harm in it. not anymore.
pour yourself a glass of wine. pour him a draught of lighter
fluid. toss a match with one hand and toast him with
the other. close your eyes and listen to his stuffing
clatter to the ground. it will sound like hail,
this is what you make when you keep leaving fist-sized holes
in the walls.
when you can’t stand the idea of hurting him,
but you can’t stand him, either.