One hand curled-
around the ledge.
Other wrapped, wrapped…
Prickly thorns spear my soul
Run afoul of convention
Mention lectures past.
Longer this time than last.
Moment to indulge.
Bountiful in size, shape.
Bound to hurt this indulgence.
Hands tighten grip.
Stop! Stop this spiral–
Not again, not to yourself.
Insanity. Unfair. Loudly yells–
“can’t do anything, messed that up, no one loves.”
Whites of knuckles come forward,
toward the mounting indulgence.
Cries the heart, pleads the soul.
Time to pass this indulged second
when grief overtook hope.
Submitted as part of Jingle’s Thursday Poets Rally Week 37