Pull, tug, pick…

Like a weaver, I pluck at my life, every strand that tangles around my heart. I file them in lines and rows, pulling them in and out of shape. Lines in a notebook, checkbook, handbook pile up until they become lines on my thigh. Lines shape my eyes and silver lines hide between dark strands of hair. My jaw is tight because I’ve been grinding my teeth again.

Pull, tug, pick…

I am not some Alexander the Great, able to slice through anything standing in my path. I cannot pull out a weapon of steel and cut away the things that turned me into this. Instead, I have to sit and pick at each thread. Loosen it little by little, wet my finger with my tongue, and yank with all my might on the cords of my insecurity and fear. Some finally let go, let me breathe. Others tug so hard I start to choke. 

Pull, tug, pick…

Until one section unravels. I won’t see the pattern until I can untangle the mess I made, guide the warp through the weft, and lay the lines properly. The result of my stumbling passage through this life. So I keep wedging my fingers back into the lumps in my thread, picking apart the knots that refuse to unravel. One thread at a time, I’ll take it all apart and make it right.

Pull, tug, pick…