Sticky 

isn’t quite the right word for the way my left hand feels 

every time I hold it between my legs, 

hold my breath and count to five, 

hold my chin up to keep my pride, 

& hold my eyes wide to keep them dry. 

And that stupid sticky strip of just-standing-still between my legs 

just gets heavier each time we try. 

Sticky 

wasn’t strong enough to hold 

onto this one, 

or the one before, 

or the one before. 

And holding hope between my fingertips like a no-quit, sticking-to-it kind of idiot

just gets trickier each time we ask for more.

It feels less like failure if you never wanted it in the first place. Maybe I’ll try that next, and see if it sticks.