Trepidation creeps on the spine, a tightrope act.
We are both audience and whipped animal.
Who will hold my hand? Hopefully myself.
Every day I see is its own dying breath.
This is the future we walk towards,
a destination we cannot afford,
a world of our own choosing
but not of our making.
This is the moment where
you find your lips sewn together
and yourself, the unforgiving needle,
and a smile breaks across your face but
not the strings you chose to seal a life away.
I watch as I dip into the sordid pool, pitch-black.
I watch as I become naked, freezing and/or afraid.
I watch as I grow into the mold I sculpt for myself;
I watch as He lays another finger on my back.
I watch as you tie yourself down to the earth;
the needle and thread embed themselves in me.
I watch as I walk down the road’s centre line;
I watch as I fail to catch up with my own feet.