note to self

Electrical storm
Pushes tension high.

No escape
From hard hands,
From hard words —
The rope grows taut.

Rib to hip
Hip to thigh,
Compensation for
The stacked and wound.

But a rope is not a bone.
The anodyne is bitter.
And there is no more

These dreams are truth-tellers.
But you’ll never learn.
You’ll never listen.
And you’ll never say the words.

So go ahead then.
Untangle the knotted thread.
Twist it into new rope
To bind yourself to stone.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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