Sometimes I feel so stretched around myself I cant breathe. Not in the nice cradled way of infants or the final fermented way of the buried. But just wedged tightly in between.
And I know I’m the only one who can unravel me,
and fortune favors the bold and those who ought to be,
but I wonder what will be left If I start to tug at the strings of me.
Will I unravelquicklyfasterthanwordsandeyesmovethinningmyselfintoyarn hit the the floor and then what, open and exposed and chained no more
Will I be free only to find the wings I once had have withered into nothing? No no, better to live in the breathlessness of confinement than the uncertainty of freedom. But,
I try to stop, but I feel