Ever since the first clot of air that you inhaled, the fabric wound itself, attached itself to what you now call your body.
A parasite to your soul's home.
You can cut this fabric, slowly, systematically, it will take patience and time, you'll make it out of it, fresh and alive, but you'll lose some skin, bits of you would spill out along with your blood because it took too long to cut the fabric out and it had already made itself a part of you.
But you'll make it out of it, fresh and alive.
But you'll make it out of it, fresh and alive.
You can tear through this fabric, with the urgency to breathe again because its presence suffocates you, its existence proclaims you as its own but you don't want it.
So you tear through the fabric, with shivering fingers, mustering all your strength.
There is some pain yes it feels like a needle, pricking your skin again and again and again.
So you tear through the fabric, with shivering fingers, mustering all your strength.
There is some pain yes it feels like a needle, pricking your skin again and again and again.
You can slip out of the fabric, like a snake shedding its skin, slowly, gracefully and effortlessly. But it will soon return, the same as it was, like it never left.
Take your pick.
Take your pick.
