I fight against the ever-present ropes surrounding my flailing limbs. The more I struggle, the more the tassels tighten. My knowledge of this rule is irrelevant as I continue to kick and punch, thrashing for my life. Slowly my resistance dies away as the strings flex around my neck. My chest heaves, in, out. The breaths begin to become shorter, more strained.
When I awake, I am released. My body is covered in scarlet lacerations. As I examine each crimson lash, I realize it wasn't ropes that left these marks. It was fingerprints, fingerprints from my own fingertips.
At this point I begin to question my sanity, and if it still exists. I realize that it's not what other people do to you, it's always up to you. People can do what they want to you, but it all depends on your reaction. Are you going to fight against your own will power or resist that of those around you?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Catalog
PoetryThe best part about writing is that sometimes it speaks to you.
