i find myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. i used to pull it tight around my wrists and lose it in rosy verticals. it hurt until the pull choked and made it numb, numb until it wasn’t there and if it isn’t there than it isn’t a problem. it’s once in a while, it’s periodical. i snapped back lying on my floor without a pulse, stood up and threw away the rusty blades. sabbatical.

i found myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. when you choose to bruise cause you have nothing left to lose. the soldier who made it out with everything intact except for what’s in his head, but that blood runs clear so they ignore it instead.

i almost used this red string as a noose. but now i’m playing double-dutch, catching fishing lines and throwing beams of orange and blues. sing me a song, porcelain. you taught me how to swim.