These Threads1 min 274 1 min 274
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.