What is wrong?

With me.

Where do I begin?

Are these thoughts cancerous

or benign?

Where did they start–

where do they end?

 

At the tippy top of myself is a strand of string.

Cotton.

White.

Laced within itself.

Wrapping around itself.

It snakes through my being.

Down through my throat,

around my wrists.

It coils around my entrails until it exits

out through my heels.

 

I am knotted up inside by that very rope.

Wound so tightly.

The rope props Me up.

It is me.

Am I it or is it me?

Or are we one entity at all?

 

Together we move forward

through the seconds that create existence.

We figure out how to bend and distort

our body towards new and usual things.

 

We face them. Who are we?

What is wrong with us?

In the mirror, my lifeline disappears.

I am encapsulated in a relatively harmless organ.

It defines me… to some.

 

There is no face.

No name. No identity.

Decades of living what others want.

But who am I?

What is wrong with Me?

Is my string wound too tightly?

Too loose?

Am I moving–I don’t even know anymore.

 

Undulating towards the room

I face another entity.

Shrouded in royal blue.

Who are you?

IS there something wrong with you too?

Our ropes look different.

 

It shuffled away.

 

I’m none the wiser as to who they are.

Or me.

What is wrong with Me?

 

Is it even worth noting?

 

_LR_2018