The Weaver

The child was a weaver: She had woven herself a blanket to help her sleep at night.
A dress to show up to the world with. 
A bag to put all of her possessions.
A pair of socks to keep her warm.
With a thread of rainbow colors, she had woven herself a life.
That woven life of hers was colorful, sure, but it wasn't aligned properly, and there were some tears in the corner. One hole even got bigger and bigger with time. Every few years she would sew it back together, until it would unravel again. She wasn't good at sewing. But weaving was her gem.
So she added more and more layers to her imperfect life.
She'd use thick rough yarn, or delicate silk threads. It didn't matter as long as it would bend to her liking. Once she had even woven a long strand of grass into her life.
A taste of wild unkept nature to fuel her as she went along her handwoven life.
Occasionally, she invited guest weavers on her journey. Beginners, always.
Ones that she could teach and groom. Sometimes they would outdo her with their weaving skills, other times they would get bored and reach to video games instead.
She had a weaving buddy also. A 'best weaving friend'.
They would sit together, hours on end, weaving their lives away and sharing stories of their worst tears, or their most glamorous works of arts. They would flaunt each other's handwoven life with pride, and ask for help with those pestering imperfections that a handwoven life would bring along. 
One day, the child hand-woven herself into her life.
She started with her feet: The sharp needle pierced through her pinky toe so easily.
'Ow!' The child shrieked.
But a moment later, she no longer felt the pain.
The thread was in her, they were intertwined, tangled up, woven together.
She waited a while, to roam free in her newfound body.
​A body of bones and flesh but also now -- of thread and needles.
She tiptoed, stretched , hopped and felt the weight of her newfound self.
It was natural, as if she was never anything else but a handwoven piece.
She continued with her ankle. It burns a bit. But only for a moment.
And after a few breaths she was good to go, and so she went: she had woven her legs, her thighs, her abdomen, her back, her breasts, her neck and lastly: her head.
She didn't need eyes to see, because she could feel in every movement the millions of fiber threads in her veins. They now would lead the way.
She only needed her arms, so they could keep weaving.
She was after all - a weaver. And had to live up to the name.
Even when there was no longer any air and she had suffocated by a million tiny threads.
Even then, her arms kept weaving. A weaver is always -- a weaver.