Compulsive Unraveling

It starts with a line—

half-heard, half-felt,

like a song stuck in your teeth.

You write it down,

just to shut it up.

But the line pulls another,

then another,

like thread yanked from a sweater

you didn’t mean to ruin.

Now it’s a hole,

and you’re picking at it

because what else are you supposed to do?

Before long, you’re knee-deep

in metaphors that don’t quite land,

chasing some truth

that slips sideways every time you blink.

You call it poetry.

It calls you restless.

You write until your brain

feels scraped clean,

like maybe you’ve won

or at least outrun the worst of it.

But quiet never lasts.

Another line hums,

and you’re back at it—

pulling, unraveling,

telling yourself it’s fine,

you’ll patch it up later.