There was always something more to the knots

in my shoelaces,

the strings of sentences,

and my bones were a labyrinth of unanswered questions

and hushed thoughts

when no one was awake but the stars.

 

So I tugged on the ropes

conjured up by my own imagination

and wrestled with the bindings that threatened

to keep me where I stood, but I didn’t want to be there.

I wanted to dive into the obscurity

and oddities that bloomed in my own mind.

 

And every fragile breath took me closer to scissors that could cut me

free. But I’m listening to the giggles of friends and whispered small talk

and the teacher saying

“Describe yourself.”

 

But I can’t.

 

So I mimic what my friends say

through clenched teeth

and tip toe around the lion

that is captive in my ribcage.

 

But if I can’t even describe myself

how do I expect my friends to translate

my morse code

of hidden dreams and raging sea

that I’ve concealed in the palms of my hands.

 

And the ropes tighten.

 

Burning my wrists and causing me to yell

for the stars to align and to pick the four leaf clovers

and put them in the pages of my favorite book.

To beg for someone to tell me it’s alright

to make the incision

and expose my maze of bones.