Saturday, January 13, 2018


it's the nest of soft blankets;
a darkened room and a locked door.

it's the stacks of empty green and brown bottles,
the cracks in the wood panelling around the doors;
the incoherent slurs.

it's the patched up holes;
the startle at every unexpected sound;
the white of fingers as they tightly clutch doorknobs.

it's pages of shaky writing in black ink; 
incomplete sentences and watermarks;
teeth biting down on a tongue that doesn't dare speak.

it's the razor-sharp words; 
the sting of warm water;
the long sleeves.

it's the pulling of the self apart; 
shredding, unravelling, despising. 

weaving back together.

Schrödinger's ball of yarn.

No comments:

Post a Comment