Pulled to the ground, tight, I’m the only thing between floating or falling. The knot ran out of strength. They were too worn, and one by one they pluck, pluck, plucked their way to freedom in the sky.
Like usual, I was left holding the remains, trying to keep something in tact that wasn’t meant to. The captain was meant to drown.
The wind pulls against me with force that threatens to rip my right arm from it’s place. My hand is shredding from the friction with that rope. You’d never believe it was able to break if you held onto it. On the other side my fingers are threaded through the metal ring, securely fastened to the deck. It doesn’t move, but, God, I wish it did.
My body is screaming to let go. Begging for the release of crashing. Begging to disappear into the sea. My hands are slipping. My heart is slipping.
The Messy Middle 