Needle

Lyrics

I was born as a brother’s quiet treason
A little rebellion in the steel
I weigh a pound and a half from the guard to the tip
Small enough to hide, sharp enough to feel
I was meant to be a secret in a courtyard
A private joke about the way a lady stands
I was never meant to be a graveyard
Held in such a young and freezing hand

They named me for the women’s work
The quiet art of mending what is torn
But my fear isn't the rust or the dark
Or the cold of the northern morn
My fear is the space I took up in her chest
When she threw every other thing away
I was the only memory she wouldn't put to rest
I was the needle that stitched her to the grey

I remember the damp of the temple stones
When she buried me to try and be no one
Listening to the water and the beggar's groans
Waiting to see what the dark had done
She came back with a grip that was strangely hollow
The fingers knew my balance before the mind awoke
I know I am made of a story, but I saw what follows
When a child forgets how to tell a joke

They named me for the women’s work
The quiet art of mending what is torn
But my fear isn't the rust or the dark
Or the cold of the northern morn
My fear is the space I took up in her chest
When she threw every other thing away
I was the only memory she wouldn't put to rest
I was the needle that stitched her to the grey

Stick them with the pointy end
A nursery rhyme for a throat
I wanted to be a brother’s friend
Not the only thing keeping the ghost afloat

They talk about the faces and the list
And the dark god she learned how to serve
I just remember the tremor in her wrist
Before I taught her how to lose her nerve
And how the mending
Unraveled the girl