You write a tasteless form
upon your soul
branded with knuckles and tendons and strength.

An emblem,
you claim,
A sentence,
I whisper.

There are so many rules
in you fingers
and between your flesh
that it’s difficult to ever be free.

There are no shackles
around your structured,
sketchy,
wrists,
but you are trapped.

You are a prisoner
to intricacy
to the night
to rules
and to your ingrained bible;

You are trapped,
and you are only liberated
when you trick yourself into thinking you are.