unweaving

sometimes when the vines grow down my arm,

past the thin skin of my elbows (translucent enough to see the veins)

and down to touch the knuckles on my fingers,

i let them wrap around my pulse points

and close my eyes and wait for them to pierce my skin, drain me.

these vines are inky black and made of reflections,

blinking and mutating blue gradients of light and dark intertwined,

and i think some days they want to bleed me dry,

and i think i'm too tired to think about anything else.

and the vines around my head cover my eyes so i don't

have to think about all the regrets (regrets) and desperate

pleas for undoing redoing undone things and everything that

i can't bear to put into any kind of meaningful thoughts

and every so often i wake up to see nothing but darkness,

the contorting blue light black light blinding vines against

the precious eyelids that can prove to be too heavy to open some days.

but there's someone else's fingertips touching mine, i can feel it,

and i don't think i'm alone at all, and the vines aren't too tight,

in fact they're hugging me comfortingly but they're winding and

binding and ever so dangerous.

sometimes they grow all the way down to my fingertips, and wait

for me to brush them away, and i've let them get out of control

when i reach for your hand, but there's something about

the sunset in your eyes that reminds me that these vines are

temporary and i'm slowly unweaving myself until i can

remember how to breath again.