Attention

It’s not early, and it’s not late. 
Just like when you speak to me, I’m there, but not really. 
I've had a few days off, and I had hoped to find some sort of solution that I had been missing these last few months while rushing around, killing myself in work and in digging myself into relationships with people who do not matter. 
But I didn't come to any conclusions. 
Just words that may eventually make sense. 
Like a look you’re not sure the meaning of.
Or a kiss good luck but not meant for love, 
But love is what we want, right? 
A hand on the small of your back, pull me closer and I’ll forget that I ever said love wasn't real. 
Attention. 
Attention:
Do not fall, and let someone else pick you up by words. 
Do not get off track.
But this is my problem. 
A singular task at hand, falls aside to the questions that never seem to end,
Wrapping it’s fingers around my wrist and pulling me into the bathroom, 
Release.
Throw up every word you thought you’d say, that you thought the alcohol would surface or create, 
Like some kind of God creating his hopeful children, 
Ties them up on strings of hope and burden and watches his puppets jerk up and down, nauseous with muted screams, 
It’s show time. 
And I've already forgotten my lines, 
And which way to step, and how exactly to fall. 
And I am afraid. Not of the people that hang on every last inhale I expose, 
But of the spotlight. 
And I’m warm with its bulbs facing the top of my head, 
And I am not this saint of an angel that you've cast me out to be.
And I can’t figure out which character I’m supposed to be.
I’m sorry.