The Knots We Keep

The knot appears behind your back—
a looped lace, a slipped end,
at first, unnoticed.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter,
a snag in the line.
Naivety winds it tighter.

Some knots come with purpose:
a prisoner’s binds,
the cinch of a promise,
the noose.
Others, accidental:
a tangle of choices,
pulled tighter by pulling away.

In our pockets, we carry them—
the knots of the day,
tomorrow,
the week ahead,
and of a lifetime.
Stubborn as a bulldog,
stronger than the line itself.

What makes a knot a knot?
Faded wounds and half-truths,
the names you forgo,
the life you almost seized.
The tangle inside,
of stories untold, unfinished.

Unfurling the web might anger the spider;
she only bites when provoked.
It’s dangerous to cut the net beneath you,
for it holds you from the ground.
Sometimes it’s easier to leave a knot be.

But then, in a moment—
the rope slips through its own grip.
Unfurling and unwinding,
resistance isn’t futile.
As your fingers dig through its coils,
the knot loosens.

The thread relaxes,
but doesn’t lay flat.
Not yet, at least.
A length of rope,
a life,
untangled.