Ball of threads.

Inside me, a ball of threads,

a tangle of lives lived, tightly wound,

bound by who I am now and

stretched thin by the ghost who I was,

by those I’ve let go as the seasons change.

They don’t unravel, though I sometimes wish they would—

some knots too tight, too tangled to free.

Still, I carry them, all of them,

their echoes, their memories, heavy as they are.

They pull me under at times,

yet still, I rise, knotted and whole.

These threads, these lives, these experiences,

multiplied by my overthinking,

the overlooked mundane that slipped quietly into me—

they all weave into my being.

This ball of threads, this tangled mess—

it makes me who I am.