Lelia Graf I’m Not Myself When I’m With You
Threads control me. Not the thick rope Of fishing nets, But the delicate thread Of sewing. Threads wind through me, Through my fingers and toes, Through my eyelids and lips. Threads control my body. They lift my arms into waves. They pull my legs forward, Urging them to walk, run, pace, To ease my rumbling mind. They attach little spools to my fingers Forcing my exhausted hand To scribble meaningless sentences. Threads control my vocal chords. They loosen their hold on my stomach, Forcing out a guffaw. They wind up my throat But get frayed when they make me Scream in anger or fear. The finespun thread Spiral around my windpipe, Squeezing and squeezing until I can no longer breathe. The needle winds thread Through my body, My actions not my own, Points at my heart Ready to strike When I can take no more. I don’t even have a thimble To protect my thumbs. It pierces me, Draws a trickle of blood That splatters On the words that cover the page. Threads control me. I am trapped in their web, Helpless to do anything But watch from the inside. And I can’t help but Wonder What if I had scissors? [11]