Who Picks up the Threads?

gk29003 Poems

You’re reading this poem and I’m picking at the hem of my dress until the circle of fabric that graced my feet now sits uncertainly at my ankles. You’re not passive, no longer can you claim actionless; for every line you read I’m pulling more and now my knees are exposed to the cold scrutiny. Which line, I wonder, will you like enough to remember, and will it be worth anything when you’re done? I’m asking you this not quite rhetorically, but I don’t think you can see past the thighs shaking in the winter. It’s not your fault, of course, not you, or you, but you’re still reading, and I’m still unwinding the thread, so let’s make the claim, you and I, that we’re both at fault here. It’ll be too late by the time these words reach you. There’ll come a point, where you look away, and I wonder which part of myself was too much; which part of myself made you turn away, and which part of myself needs further work to be presentable in anything other than excess. I apologise. I’m rambling, and still pulling at the thread. The idea here is to make this harder to read, because god **** it, I won’t stoop so low as to beg you to stop, but it’s getting colder the more I pull. Soon enough, I’ll be bare in front of you, and what are we to do, then? What are we ever to do? It’s alright to stop reading, now, because there’s no thread left to unravel, just a pile of loose fabric at my feet, and you can close the book, now. You can close it, and I’ll pick up the needle.