Hanging By My Thumbs


I really couldn’t do it

cut the cord, that is.

I needed balls.

 

Pumped up on your best

wannabe’s, I dragged your cross

clinging   to maybe and might have been.

And then world weary

slept on the edge.

 

Now   

I wake

to the hangover

steering clear of your blaring

brave facade

as I make the final cut.

As I steel myself

for the fall

expecting relief, somehow.

 Image

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