Ghosted Margins

I fell into a trap.
Margins became quicksand, pulling me in.
I grabbed the edge of a comma and managed to pull myself up.

Now I sit on a dash, feet dangling freely, staring into the void of expectations.

Here’s a little something —
a shaky second step, meant to stir the water.

Death to perfectionism, inflicted with a pebble of thought.

Maybe the ripples will help me remember.