If my mind is a ball of yarn –

it has been tangled and untangled,

rolled up into knots.

Someone naughty has

thrown it up and

kicked it down and

pushed it aside and...

well,

I guess we shall see what has become of it.

 

If my mind is a ball of yarn –

then WORDS are the fiber that make up its being.

Here are what the words would say:

“sleep

      who

   phlanges

            cage

madness

         literally.”

 

Forgive them if they do not make sense.

They have been tangled and untangled,

rolled up into knots.

 

My mind had been new,

once.

It had been neatly packaged,

displayed on the shelf,

tag still on.

Until...

 

I was seven years old and

whenever I played house with my two

BEST

friends,

they always made me

sit somewhere else.

And they would laugh

because

I did not understand

why.

I liked to play with the swings but

they liked to play with my mind –

tangled and untangled,

rolled up in knots.

And even when they took up all the swings,

I could not tell

if this was their fault

or mine.

I mean, they did this for a

reason,

right?

I mean, we were all

so young,

right?

My mind becomes

tangled and untangled,

rolled up into knots.

 

In fifth grade, I turned ten.

I also...

made friends I shouldn’t have,

learned words I shouldn’t have,

believed things I shouldn’t have.

This is what happens when

I look up to people

shorter than me.

My yarn became wrapped up in

question marks:

Are sex jokes funny?

Is it ok to listen to Papa Roach?

Shouldn’t I be happy on the weekends?

Shouldn’t I be happy around my friends?

Shouldn’t I be happy?

Shouldn’t I be happy?

Why aren’t I happy?

 

I am only ten, but again I am

tangled and untangled,

rolled up into knots.

 

And one day I am tired of

thinking in knots.

I am looking for something sharp and pointy

to rid me of my pain.

In the end,

my weapon of choice is –

I choose to find solace in –

knitting needles.

 

I learn to

write

with these knitting needles:

knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two,

cast off and publish and

voila! That’ll do!

I have created a scarf!

I have created a poncho!

I have created a hat!

 

I have created...

a poem?

 

hmm...

 

My first poem looks funny:

words are clunky and some things don’t belong.

I’d be embarrassed to show this to anyone else.

But still - it is cozy and handmade,

and it makes sense

to me.

 

So when it doesn’t make sense why

all my friends have left

and suddenly

there’s nothing to do,

that’s ok.

I’ll just grab my needles and

write a sweater

or two.

 

So when I am no longer

a varsity member

of a sport I once loved,

when my coach stops looking me in the eye,

when I stop getting medals,

when I stop improving,

when I become irrelevant,

I can knit a poem to wrap around my shins.

Running’s not the only thing that keeps you

warm.

 

And so while I won’t be

waving my poem on rooftops or

wearing it to parties,

I will bring it home with me.

I will wear it to sleep.

I will give it to my children.

 

So if my mind is a ball of yarn, yes:

it has been tangled and untangled,

rolled up into knots –

but

if I am patient enough with myself to just

unravel it,

and if I can use my needles to tickle it just

right,

it can create scarves.

 

It creates poems.