Fine. 

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. 

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