We are connected, you and I, by
a thread, thin and winding through
the paths our respective lives have
taken. The ends stretch apart, only
to come weave themselves back together
into knots that sit in the bottom
of my stomach like a poison, rotting
me from the inside out. I’d say “at
least I tried,” but I don’t think
I ever did. I only tangled myself into
your life, and you were always too
kind to take scissors to the mess,
though now I wish you had. Because
this rope I have woven from the
strings of my past now sits in a
noose around my neck.