It came to be simple,
Like child's play
It taught us to be vigilant,
Like crossing the street
It compelled us to feel, really feel it,
Like our bruises and burns
And our discomfort and aching

But really, at first,
it wasn't so simple
but instead like a splinter
Fighting its way deeper into our skin

But really, at first,
What did it teach us?
To be afraid of ourselves?
Like we were the perpetrators

But really, I mean really,
how did it compel us to feel
everything we were meant to feel?
Solidity and resistance?
Terrified and unnerved?

But really...
Was it only a single thread
that pulled us away
from those feelings we had felt?
Those addictions and lies?

Was it really tiny fibers or fragments
of our shame that stole us away?

Or did we fight too long,
long enough to breathe a sigh of surrender?
Or did we play to long, wait too long?
Did we numb ourselves for an eternity
just so we wouldn't feel?
Feel the splinter we wrenched from our system?
The fear we fed
but tried to relieve from our mistakes and futures?
Or the single thread
We tugged away from the sleeves of our shirts
Undressing our bandages,
Unraveling these tangled things
like the clothes we wear?

Or the single thread
that was pulled until nothing was left.
Nothing but a wound, waiting to be stitched?
A single wound?