in the interest of dying,
we are free.
in the interest of living,
we are bound by our
freedoms.
in this, our souls
are divided, if indeed
'a soul' is what it is.
in restricted shells,
we move, we incite,
we concoct and
conduct
true horrors and
prestine beauties,
glorified by sleep
and symptom.
god,
this is not.
self,
this is not.
hope
is its only reward.
so for these freedoms
we burn
and binde
and coil fingers
through knotted hair
and intwine ourselves
in thicket and thorn.
our bruises, divine.
our hardships
entwine.
we are the smallest
nothings
you will ever unwind.
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