Falling From Grace

I am on a ledge,
once again.
There is no danger of death,
just sentimental suffering,
and I see her watching,
sharing popcorn with her boyfriend,
shielding her eyes from the sun,
so she can get a better look at her lovefool.

I’m going to fall.
She knows it. I know it. Her ugly boyfriend knows it. The gathering crowd knows it.
She blows me a kiss,
holds a gun up to my bruised shins,
lets it clank onto the cold steel that lies beneath my suede shoes,
she smiles and says that it’s loaded.

Her ugly boyfriend is leering,
lustful, longing looks,
one hand in the popcorn,
one hand in his pants.
This was supposed to be private.
She is edging her way onto the ledge,
laying around my buzzing body,
she nuzzles against my shaking knees like a cat,
tries to trick me into conversation (she once remarked that my voice was sexy and feminine, so I felt a little objectified.)


Her boyfriend isn’t ugly, I suppose,
he’s just not my type,
and he’s in my way,
so he gets my wrath,
and, God, why can’t she just stay away and stop giving me hope?
Why can’t she stop making my legs feel weak?
Why does she want me to fall when we all know she won’t catch me?

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