I often feel as if there is a dark glimmering
buckle of barbed wire whirling round my gut.
It tightens with time, clawing, shrinking into me.

If I were to remain here, will agony prevail?
Roped up from the subtle notes inbetween
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; -the simplicity I crave.

And even yet, or sometimes never, will my core crumle if I take it off.

I float on the heaviness of such decisions. Burying the scarring with fabric, the occasional smile, single scratchy laughs.

A hell-belt, or a hug?

Tied up, or protected?