There was always something more to the knots
in my shoelaces,
the strings of sentences,
and my bones were a labyrinth of unanswered questions
and hushed thoughts
when no one was awake but the stars.
So I tugged on the ropes
conjured up by my own imagination
and wrestled with the bindings that threatened
to keep me where I stood, but I didn’t want to be there.
I wanted to dive into the obscurity
and oddities that bloomed in my own mind.
And every fragile breath took me closer to scissors that could cut me
free. But I’m listening to the giggles of friends and whispered small talk
and the teacher saying
But I can’t.
So I mimic what my friends say
through clenched teeth
and tip toe around the lion
that is captive in my ribcage.
But if I can’t even describe myself
how do I expect my friends to translate
my morse code
of hidden dreams and raging sea
that I’ve concealed in the palms of my hands.
And the ropes tighten.
Burning my wrists and causing me to yell
for the stars to align and to pick the four leaf clovers
and put them in the pages of my favorite book.
To beg for someone to tell me it’s alright
to make the incision
and expose my maze of bones.