I can not keep pretending
that things were all o.k.
when in fact I’d climbed
that Brooklyn roof
long before they got worse.
You see, the memory has it’s way
of cutting up the past,
rearranging it like a scrapbook
where you only have to see the good.
I can’t keep pretending
that things could go back
to the way they were,
even before I moved to Maine.
Because even if I could,
it wasn’t how I imagine.
Second chances only work
the second time around.
After that it’s just sad.
It’s denial.
It’s that last drink you take
knowing you don’t need another.
It’s that expensive perfume you buy
in hope’s it will cover your mistakes.
It’s the pictures you post smiling
having almost killed one another
the night before.
When make believe becomes your norm
I guess it gets some people by
but,
I can not keep pretending—
I had jumped so long ago.
Beautiful!?
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