The thought of raising my voice above a murmur
or stopping my hands from shaking long enough
coils the fragmented hope inside of me to maybe
give something a shot.
Though reaching out to me isn't enough
because it's already over for the girl who, in the end,
can't raise her voice above a murmur
or stop her hands from shaking long enough
but can drink alone
and write bad poetry.
Cheers.