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Looking down at an angle

To the fake green football field

With its dingy letters

Darker than the muddy snow,

The smell of a cigarette

Put out on the ledge

Mixes with the familiar me-scent

Of three-day dirty sweats

As snow stabs my frozen, unfeeling cheek.

I'm standing on the balcony

Too uncomfortable to stay

Too scared to go inside.

I am trespassing on my own life.

Nothing stops me

But the bald-faced lie

Believed by a smudged innocent.

I say things to build myself up,

But I only succeed in making myself stop,

Unable to progress or improve my attitude,

Like a car stalled on an upward incline

That is slowly slipping backward

Despite the desperately pressed brakes.

I can't live inside this uncontrollable stillness.

No one who lives

Is this unmoving.

As I die of a quiet coma

Part of me knows that there wasn't

A better mistake to make

Than to make the same mistake again.

Her childlike voice calls me in

To the soft lit warmth of sometimes shared rooms.

I feel the overpowering weakness

Of my fondness for the error

And surrender to the movement

Of going through the door.

Then there's just the familiar defeated feeling

And excitement of a fallacy renewed.