It’s my birthday today.
The celebration of my life—
But I only feel the weight
Of all I have yet to turn
It into.
Merely a bag of yarn and
Crafts supplies I swear
I will get back to, but I
Only layer ***** sweaters
Ontop, lying to myself.
The socks
Grow more and more
Mismatched, my eyes
Bleary as I feed my needle
Through the stitches I
Can't see anymore.
Another
Finger counted off on my
Hand, but they start to
Shake more with each one,
The years blurring together.
Did I drop
The thread eons ago? Will I
Have to unravel everything
I thought I was building,
Hoping it was the purpose
Of my life?