Story Poem.

[unalive.]

Tie a noose around your mind,
loose enough to breathe fine, and tie it
To a tree, tell it, "You belong to me,
This ain't a noose, this is a leash,
And I have news for you,
you must obey me."

Let the branches bend under the weight,
your thoughts dangling like a fruit
ripe for plucking.
Tangle your emotions in the roots,
dig them deep into the soil,
where light cannot reach.

Whisper to the shadows that crawl
beneath your skin,
where the silence sings louder than screams,
where hope is a distant echo,
and fear is the only constant companion.
Wrap it tight, tighten the grip—
for if it slips, you'll lose control,
and there's no telling what will fall.

A twisted dance with madness,
where every step is a prayer to forget,
and every breath is a plea to remember.
The air tastes of ash,
and the world spins too fast,
yet somehow, you're always left behind.

The tree stands firm,
its bark like iron,
as you pull at the threads of yourself,
shredding what's left of who you were
until only the hollow echoes of your cries remain.
You tug harder,
twisting tighter—
the leash pulling,
the noose holding,
all while the silence whispers its sweet lullaby.

But you can't stop.
You never could.
In the end,
the leash is the only thing that makes you feel real.