There are chains beneath my skin,
not clinking iron, but trembling thought,
threaded through the places I’ve been,
tightened by every “should” I’ve fought.
Guilt is the hand that lifts the wire,
jerking me into hollow grace;
it whispers, dance until you tire,
and paints a smile across my face.
Depression hums the mournful tune,
its rhythm slow, its edges cold;
I move beneath a paper moon,
a story endlessly retold.
Anxiety tugs, abrupt, unsure,
a trembling pulse, a sudden shift;
each motion sharp, thoughts impure,
each breath wishing this weight would lift.
I dream of scissors, clean and kind,
to cut what pulls and to set me free,
but even freedom, in my mind,
feels like another string on me.
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 1:35 AM UTC
There are chains beneath my skin,
not clinking iron, but trembling thought,
threaded through the places I’ve been,
tightened by every “should” I’ve fought.
Guilt is the hand that lifts the wire,
jerking me into hollow grace;
it whispers, dance until you tire,
and paints a smile across my face.
Depression hums the mournful tune,
its rhythm slow, its edges cold;
I move beneath a paper moon,
a story endlessly retold.
Anxiety tugs, abrupt, unsure,
a trembling pulse, a sudden shift;
each motion sharp, thoughts impure,
each breath wishing this weight would lift.
I dream of scissors, clean and kind,
to cut what pulls and to set me free,
but even freedom, in my mind,
feels like another string on me.
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