Collection

needle

When I was little I had an amusing
game of cataloguing ways to die. 
Some were boring, run-of-the-mill suicides,
like hanging, drowning, etc. Some stemmed 
from ancient torture practices, like being 
sat naked on a bamboo shoot and 
dead within a day because of the plant’s
incredible growth rate. Ripped apart 
by horses, one’s arms and legs tied to
four of them respectively. Or an icicle 
dripping on the top of one’s head
until they go mad, and then piercing 
them through as it thaws and detaches.
One of the scariest ways for me was
from an article I read, not about torture 
or suicide, but an accident. A needle 
was once lost in a patient’s bloodstream.
It eventually pierced his heart. I would
imagine this for hours. It would always 
be a sewing needle my mom used to
mend my socks. It would have a very
small eye. A slender silver float coursing
through blue rivers intricate as dreams, 
until it stops at the heart.