I never asked
for anyone to
bend over
backwards
or make sure
that I was okay.

I never asked
for the creaking
floorboards that
keep me awake
as I toss and turn
at night.

I never
wanted to be
stricken by the
fear that I can
never let go.

But I will.

Because I
never wanted
to hold on
in the first
place
and I never
wanted
a reason to
complain.

I never asked to
    be drunk;
    I planned
    on it.

The moonlight
shining in from
my fourth story
window
is fading
from the rim
of my glass,
so I can't
see what exactly
lies in front of me.

Making my way to
the bed so I can
rest once again
has become more
of a chore than
a peaceful thought.