Tangled

 My life feels like a thread.

Once smooth, once bright

it knots in places I don’t remember tying.

Some tangles are kind.

They pull me closer , to people, to moments,

to the warmth of something that almost feels like purpose.

They hold me in a way I don’t want to untie.

The kind of knot that says, stay here a little longer.

But some are cruel.

They twist around my throat,

tighten when I move too fast,

whisper that maybe I did this to myself —

pulled too hard, held too long,

loved what was never meant to stay.

Sometimes I sit with the thread between my fingers,

trying to decide 

should I untangle or remain tangled?

Because even in the mess,

there’s a shape of who I am.

And even in the neatness,

I might lose the proof that I once tried.

Maybe the truth is this:

we are never meant to be smooth strings.

We are stories braided with tension,

loops of grief,

threads of tenderness knotted into each mistake.

So tonight, I’ll rest in the tangle 

not to give up,

but to understand its pattern.

Because maybe the point

was never to untangle at all,

but to learn which knots

still let me breathe.