String Theory

A million different strings,

From a million different angles,

Hand-sewn by needlepoint, radiating from every pore of my poor body.

Each pulled taut by who- or what-so-ever;

Inmobility is an understatement.

But I’m still here,

Held together by the reverberating tugs of expectation.

Constantly in the shadow of what I could be—

The shadow of a—

World, constructed by me and those around

Me.

“Who am I?”

Is not nearly as pressing as  “What will I be?”

When I grow up, I—

No, they—no, I—no, we

Want—

What?

We want.

But when

A million different strings,

From a million different angles,

Let go, tired of waiting for a shadow to move on its own,

Then what?

A million different strings,

Tied in million different knots—

Freedom can be just as paralyzing.

That is—

Until my body feels something besides pressure,

Until my legs can carry my own weight,

Until my weight measures only me,

Until I stand, walk, run in a singular direction,

Away from the shadow I helped to shade,

Until the only shadow left is the one I leave behind

Me.

Until then.