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Death and I dance together when the nights are a little too dark. We sometimes reminisce over the moments where I had fought the long, swinging end since childhood. She whispers of a kid who loved the trees anyway, reminds me of how I had purposely refused to learn knots for the simple relief of never relying on those muscled memories.
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In some languages I am listed as a moderator, a strong combatant, hearty.
In others, summed to a simple meaning: to tie firmly, to bind.
In Greek I am the noose.
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How stinging it is to find I cannot hide from something that is legally mine such as this, a paper trail that has followed me long before I could breathe. My parents having hand picked my own destructive irony without second thought.
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In the early morning hours, I convince myself that this must be a running joke. A double entendre the heavens love to laugh at, for even my name is the rope I had tried so exhaustedly to run from.
About the Creator
Bee Jay
Hold my hand, we're going on a ride. It might not be pretty, but maybe, just maybe it'll be worth it.
Comments (1)
dark. Eerie and great! Good job.