I'm gonna' I'm gonna I'm

I'm

I'm A cold and rushing flow surrounds Fair Margaret.

She is tossed and dashed with a churning current, gasping for breath, but her lungs find no air.

Such a troublesome thing.

Holding so fast against the current will only cause churn.

The rushes are wild and thrashing, but even as she tumbles, she does not travel downstream.

She is anchored by her fingers, tied up entangled strings.

Is it that you cannot help but defy me?

It is simply in your nature.

I know this.

I have seen you in many bodies and many so.

But never before have they been so malignantly what you are.

Mosses take root on jagged stones that cannot be seen.

Short and fluttering strands draw the voice nearer to her.

You would say that it is your place to follow where currents have carried you.

But you are so willful.

Look at you now, rooted fast by your poisonous growth.

Spread like a strangling weed across all of spare.

Margaret feels herself stretched near to breaking, the pole of the river beyond any force

she has ever known.

Still, her tethers are unbreakable, and she can feel them all even now.

...