Fraying Threads

Rough hemp bit my skin,

a scratch that caught the slow undoing

of something old, forgotten in a dusty corner.

The rope unwound, coarse fibers breaking

like dry bones against my fingers.

I held the fray — raw and ragged,

a pulse that whispered of slow collapse,

threads slipping loose with time’s weight,

and the stubborn shape that won’t hold.

It’s the ache of wear,

a tug at the edges where everything loosens,

where grip is just a memory,

and the roughness burns.