The Great Unravelling

A knot is a knot.

I am a mess of knots

My unravelling is painfully slow

A new lump to untangle at each layer

of my form.

Should we just get the scissors?

Yet unravel I do

Faded colors evident

My soft middle exposed

Until I am just string

And there’s no difference between my end and my beginning

I wonder if any of it really mattered

If I matter

So frayed and unassuming

A single strand of no importance

And so I choose to disappear…

…and in the absence of my string

I find Me

Nothing mattered

It all mattered

Of no importance and of every importance all one

Because underneath my layers and knots

There was only ever Love.