These Threads

You mark me in solid strokes of black

Blotched, I am painted in dismal shades, alack,

As you bind me by what you see in my mirror

Blind to the undercurrents beneath my smooth river.

Unaware you are, of these threads relentlessly pulling

These threads strapping, hidden but binding,

Some strands monochrome, of a single colour

Mine a bleeding mix of habitual dolour.

Taunt me, go ahead, brand me queer

Move stools away from me, yes, steer clear.

Muffled, your whispers escape the gaps along with your fingers

Seeping into my bones, in my very being, they readily linger.

What is it that you call me? A bulldagger unclean?

Until that which is a part of me, I pretend to never have seen,

While you still push me to lose my scarlet string

To accept yours around my neck, an ancient forced ring.

But I have for myself these threads still consoling

These threads innate, invisible but holding,

In whose fibers lay a visceral indicator

Ignorantly cut loose by men of orientations thought greater.

So many still yearn for someone who cares

To hear these unsung notes, these unheard prayers,

But little can be done about eyes colour blind

Approving love only in black and white.

But my threads will still keep healing

These threads, invisible but sustaining,

Some strands, monotonous, of a single colour

Mine a mix of two, three, some bright, others duller.