Kneeling At The Same Altar

I fell again.

Again I disappoint the ghosts who believed in me,

the ones I call "you all" when the mirror lies.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I can't not do this.

I try. I try until my knuckles bleed from gripping.

You—my faceless crowd—are my borrowed motivation,

I knot hope's fraying rope around borrowed months,

borrowed years—good days stacked like unpaid debt.

Then that one day arrives—

the traitor day—

and I let it in.

It controls me like gravity controls the falling.

I can't anymore. I can't.

I thought this time I would win,

but nothing rivals the rush:

no hug, no kiss, no faded smile, no warm memory

can match the lightning it pours back into my veins.

After the break it feels almost like the first time—

sharp, electric, unforgivingly good.

I hate it.

I hate how good it feels.

I'm sorry I crowned it priority,

sorry I hid the evidence for weeks

behind careful smiles and averted eyes.

They didn't notice—or so I tell myself

in the quiet after.

I've already lost so much.

I can't lose it all again.

I can't let it keep winning.

But here I am,

kneeling at the same altar,

mouth tasting of ash and apology,

whispering to the dark:

one more time

one more try

one more fall