3

The cords have pulled at her flesh for far too long, tethering her to past eons of fear and hate. Shackles placed at conception around her wrists, her ankles, and her tender soft center, bind and hold so tight. She forgets to breathe. Forgets to move. So seamlessly integrated, she thought they were part of her own skin. Only new eyes could see that they were made of something foreign, a story that never fit who she truly is.

Ties. That bind. There is no blessing here.

- Still, Between