there is a white string loosely weaving through my fingers,
yet when it touched my skin, it begins to drip with a rich, dark red,
and the cuts on my skin begin to deepen and burn like salt in the wound.
i think this string is fate. or destiny. or whatever.
everything i don't believe in.
yet here it is, injuring me, softly yet leaving marks of the scarred.
how is it that people believe so strongly in this limp piece of crap?
this thread that intertwines many futures, and decides our lives?
or perhaps i'm thinking too much of it.
that must be it; overthinking.
i guess i'll allow this red line sow into my skin and weave into something,
for now i'll allow it. i don't know.
i don't know about a lot of things.
like this string. like her. like my mother.
like myself. like my mind. like my corrupted soul.
- fate. or destiny. or whatever.
YOU ARE READING
growing wings | Completed
Poetry❝my freedom was at the cost of my sanity❞ how far would you go to earn your freedom, if it meant stripping away your happiness and losing your mind. freedom does not mean liberat...
