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?

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