Read Thread
They tell of the red string of fate, tied around your pinkie finger. Sometimes I stare at it, the smallest digit on my hand. Sometimes I almost see it, a delicate bow-like knot tied securely. I wonder how it is still there when my actions have been like scissors, but then I remember that every time I took my fury out on the thread linking us, you'd just tie it again. Double knots and triple knots; you wouldn't let me escape.
I look at you some days, and I know, without the shadow of a doubt, that any string tied to any of my fingers is red. A deep red, like your determined eyes. A gorgeous, beautiful, warm red, like your favorite yukata you string loosely about yourself at night. Warm like your arms, your glances, your little acknowledgments.
My fate is woven in strong red thread. As indescribably red as your very being.
And Some days, I cannot help but link my smallest finger around yours, the one attached to your fake arm. When you look at me with your brows raised, I am reduced to smiling and teasing you with, "Well, you were tugging on the string quite hard."
You only scoff at me and make a point to say, "It's the other hand." The one that's been there since the day I was born.