You are like
A red thread I picked out from my mother’s old sewing kit.
You stitch your strings into my backside,
Weaving a corset of the adjective oblivious.
Trapped, I hear their whispers, cackling like crows,
They just wait for me to crumble like bread, so they can feast.
I don’t want to be the words that spill from their opened jaws,
I don’t want to be accounted for my flaws.
And I didn’t want to see your side of the story,
But you clutched my face between your talons,
And you sewed my eyes shut so I became blind and weak.
Stumbling, I regain consciousness.
Tumbling, I fumble for you,
But you have used my mother’s thread against me—
I am your marionette, moving the way you wish.
But no more, dear love—
I yank, I tug at these strings that connect me to your embrace.
We are sprawled on the floor, fighting over the tool that will set me free.
I leave you breathless after I kick
All the pain I held inside into your chest.
I am running with scissors, I am dangerous, I am alive.
These strings are laced upon my back.
And with these scissors, I will cut them off.