I fold and shove the strand back into my sweater
Press it flat against the seam with my thumb
Too tight to yank off
Too loose to ignore

Its presence is nothing
The softness of a wool a world would dismiss
But it still scratches
rough against the back of my neck

When I turn, it pricks down my spine
When I stay still, it gnaws on my brain
Every movement is an adjustment
Made in response to something no one else can see

They watch like I’m crazy
Squirming
But all they see is a perfectly fine sweater

The thread is a pulse inside my pulse
It coils and whispers through my veins
Tightening with every heartbeat

I want to tug
I want to tear
Until there is nothing left but yarn spilling at my feet

I want to take the sweater off,
Break free from torture

But the winter breeze slaps me hard in the face
I’m not ready to face the cold