The voice at my ear reminds me it’s not enough
The voice in my head tells me it’s never enough
The bridge is at my back
Match in hand
I don’t know which way to throw it
I don’t know
I just don’t know anymore
The fire is burning my hand
The sickeningly sweet smoke coiling in my lungs
But where can I throw the match?
If I throw it behind me, what will I learn?
If I throw it in front, what will I loose?
Or, if I cling to this pain a little longer, what will I become?
Who will I become?