I've spun a yarn around myself as

a system of being

the threads along my veins

knotting in my hair

wrapped around my limbs.

No, don't pull that thread
you might unravel me
I'm held together by flimsy knots and stitches.

Over time,

I've learned to look at the yarn from afar:
darned the patches that have worn out
embellished the parts I found beautiful

tightened the strings where I'm falling apart.

I'm weaving with all my strength to become.

But every new stitch feels like a noose,

choking me as I come to life -- 

as though the only way to create this cloth is with
my fingers bleeding as I weave myself together.