Get Up Eight

If self-loathing was a competition

I’d win the golden medal

I try to be good, grounded

That’s why I tattooed an anchor onto my ankle

But it has faded over the years

Rationality escapes me and I get lost in passion and fear

I reach for the bottle again, but the glass always cuts my hands

And people are always telling me,

“Fall down seven times, get up eight”

This morning I woke up hung over

With the stale taste of desperation in my mouth

Desperate for strength to get up for the millionth time

With my arms raised and my eyes closed

Waiting for someone to drag me up from my sheets of quick sand

But they just stand there and watch

They don’t say anything, but their eyes say

You need to do this on your own

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