Tangled Skeins

I buy skeins of lovely potential. I dont know what to do with it but I feel like it cant be that hard to figure out, After all, craftiness is within me, right?

I untwist the pinkness, a flush of pleasure at the choice of femininity and delicateness, nut it immediately lapses. Too quickly, losing its structure and falling into a heap of yarn, incapable of turning into anything except this tangled mess laying before me.

I cry out and push against it, a hand and a foot, catching the roundness of the turn. But it is too late, the tangle is within it now and unravelling is a chore for another day. Another person, perhaps. I am defeated by my pride.

A metaphor.