The twine bites into my skin

The twine bites into my skin,

rough fibers tugging at my patience.

I wrestle with the stubborn knot,

a rough knot of hemp and effort,

a sticky knot of what I can’t fix.

The scissors rest nearby,

scratched, like the hands that once held them.

The twine frays —

slow surrender against worn wood,

a stubborn, natural thing

resisting order and ease.

I think about how some ties hurt,

how some bonds unravel too slow,

how something raw can still bind,

how even rough hands can hold.