exhausted

In fits and spurts
I let it get to me.

I'm supposed to stand tall--that's
who I am, everyone says,

but where are my gibes now?
When, at the end of the day,

I'm alone and looking over
every irreversible decision,

where is my easy laugh?
Why can't I shrug this off?

Even I falter sometimes, and even
I make mistakes. It's just not who I

am, these shouted lies, this
fear, uncertainty, doubt, but

a collapse at
the end of

the day,
with no one

there
to catch me.

In fits and spurts,
I let it get to me.