I Was a String

I was a string a piece of thread my many visions entwined spun in great arcing motions extracted form the core and woven by these hands twisting feverish and intense sometimes inspired after midnight I’d rise from dreams to draw these precious cords from myself and how I’d marvel to see them shimmering so in the subtle light as secrets born in the night silence so many colors made to touch intimate but inarticulate you insisted when so relaxed undisciplined my youth was idle my passions were not serious if sometimes pretty or playful so you taught me molded me made me purposeful you pinned me down and stretched me tight until every movement was a laceration and still you pulled straining to make me ever more perfectly precise I cried I prayed for the fibers to snap to break but I did not break you would not let me break for then I would not make the same resonant pitch every time you touch me I would not sing so beautifully to your caress like a harp or an angel I would be coarse unrefined like a hair or branch frayed in places as cloth worn close to skin touching softly warming but you have made my edges smooth and flawless as a wire that I might ring with an immaculate tone with a voice that does not waver or shout or whisper or ever in stillness breathe too deeply