The fatal limbs of control—
To be let loose, like wind, like hair,
Like wild things that pace
And how tight the grip grows
The syphoning off of patience,
Resilience becoming thinly until
It has so much hostility & transparency
It's the small things that threadbare the heart, the things that stone-stack, this little tip here, nudged in perfectly against this invisible crevice here—up up up, heavily hammocking the fibers, & I hear them stretching, uncomfortably, laughing at the weight of themselves all so delicate & so perfect & so tiny & so high.
Those tattered tender threads, red with blood & hope & anguish & screaming to breathe & gallop—
This icy wind, roaring down my lungs, down my spine.