Thread

noun

• A long, thin strand of cotton, nylon, or other fibres used in sewing or weaving
• [mass noun] Cotton, nylon, or other fibres spun into long, thin strands and used for sewing
• literary A long, thin line or piece of something
• A theme or characteristic running throughout a situation or piece of writing
• A group of linked messages posted on an Internet forum that share a common subject or theme.
• Computing A programming structure or process formed by linking a number of separate elements or subroutines, especially each of the tasks executed concurrently in multithreading.
• (also screw thread) A helical ridge on the outside of a screw, bolt, etc. or on the inside of a cylindrical hole, to allow two parts to be screwed together.
• (threads) • informal, chiefly North American Clothes

verb

• [with object] Pass a thread through the eye of (a needle) or through the needle and guides of (a sewing machine)
• [with object and adverbial of direction] Pass (a long, thin object or piece of material) through something and into the required position for use
• [no object, with adverbial of direction] Move carefully or skilfully in and out of obstacles
• Interweave or intersperse as if with threads
• Put (beads or other small objects) on a thread, chain, etc.
• (usually as adjective threaded) Cut a screw thread in or on (a hole, screw, or other object)

Phrases 
hang by a thread 
lose the (or one's) thread 

Origin

Old English thrǣd (noun), of Germanic origin; related to Dutch draad and German Draht, also to the verb throw. The verb dates from late Middle English.

http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/thread?q=thread

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Story stitched in. Needle and thread. I focus on the eye. The point stares back.

I follow a feminine seam-- my story sewn in her story sung, her painted pain, her words, drawings, dances divulging our suspended stories started while sailing alone, continued while wading in pungent, paralyzing darkness searching for the end of the thread.

The March moon wanes to new, giving rise to release let from the depth of this darkness. In quiet, my self's story sails softly over squares sewn solely for holding the hidden. Stories embedded in bed covers. Bed covers covering nothing. And I watch these stories speak through fibers--every fiber, my being--cloth shaking, it seems, with seam-splitting aftershocks. Laid out, as I was, these quieted quilts of bound loops I'm to lay on--to sleep on-- strangle speech. Stories speak at nap time to the kindergarten napper after milk from un-kid kind cartons, pulled open from every side. Blankets after treats--cookies--Gingersnaps. Good things. Sweet things. Good little girl things.

By second grade, after the cessation of cookies and milk as nap snacks, I eat crayons— chew wax and chew paper. I swallow. White. Fuchsia. Green. Teal. Red. Maroon. Yellow. Chartreuse. Black and blue. Ingesting warrants hallway banishment. I offer no argument and chew a few wax snacks I sneak out once I've been set aside. I make no effort to be invited back, waiting through punishment. I'm permitted to return to my desk only after I've had time to "Think about what you've done." I alternate between wax and glue after that.

Fourth follows after milk and after cookies and after waxy chew toys and as I recognize I'm realizing differently the 'nothing' covered by bed covers. Fourth comes with a need for something. A need for anyone. Every fold of my skin, every roll of my fat, squares off and fills. Stories embed. Sheets. Sheet after sheet. Sheets upon sheets. Ream after ream—tear, tuck, and fold into origami pillows— pillows on which to rest—pillows stuffing the quilt squares of my skin--stuffing weight--so that I step on the scale at Strawbridge's and Clothier and Mom-Mom says, "The scale is wrong. You aren't that heavy" and shame, the name rather than Virginia (or the discarded Ida) that should have been passed down to me, cross-stiches its massive 'S' on every remaining fabric pocket. My body is horrible and I live inside. I read my mother's medical books and The Scarlet Letter to understand. The pictures of women being examined in the medical books enforce the normality of exposure and the 'A' on Hester's chest illuminates the letters I wear.

I'm Mom-Mom-less midway through sixth and there are no more walks through a backyard to water on which I sailed. No more investigations through closeted furs to find the door leading to Narnia. No more watching her sleep and worrying for her breathing in between Black Beauty chapters. No more safe bed. No more safe weekends. No more being quiety cared for. I grieve exponential loss by drinking pink soda. Stories still speak when it's sleep begging to be heard. 

Still searching for thread

end not in sight, I follow

"You will never learn"

I'm told--I'm told I'm
cause for what's wrong with the world
though in fewer words

actions yell instead
driving home from the station
where my trying stopped

story goes to bed
beside me, she's beside me
I am still alone

In eighth, by thirteen, when dark doesn't come from outside, I turn the lights off myself. I flip switches through my thirty-fifth year. I've learned, though they said I'd never. "I'll get you, my pretty. And..." I'm grateful I wasn't allowed to have a dog. I'm my own Wicked Witch-- winged monkeys circling my own monkey in the middle. I'm Cowardly Lion, made out of tin, trying to play wizard to the Dorothy I depend on to find a place called "No place like home"-- a place you look to for solace sewn simply, over and under and over and under, knots keeping the lines in place, story stitched in.

my story is not
story with that no place like
home, but her story's

threads bear witness to
themes and truths in my story
so, I keep reading