Chains and threads,
wrapped and stretched and stitched throughout,
a patchwork of cords constraining all I am meant to be,
weaving through my skin,
more than clothes,
less than a snare,
catching in each breath,
slowing countless beautiful steps I have yet to take,
preventing countless blessings I should have left in my wake.
How to run with such a weight upon my skin?
How to cast it off when the hooks and chains go deeper within?
At times I don’t even know where the tangles end
and I begin,
and it seems I could sooner throw off me from myself,
as I know,
this is no longer who I am.
What, then, is to be done,
if this runner is to run?
How shall he break,
and step out,
of what is already so long gone?
Even here must I be served,
my aching, interpenetrated limbs to be salved
with consuming flame,
until the cords and cloths of once-was
and I am unclothed,