Your Left Lung

You questioned whether the city isn’t overwhelming me these days,

I hid little anxieties in the rasp of my voice when whispering the “nays”.

Maybe just by an accident or a loop in the system you truly believed

That on Sunday nights I’m not punching the stewing hot air in my sleep.

You saw me crumble behind the walls, you crumpled up my courage,

And the city was to blame for all my fear lacking proper storage.

The others stared in disbelief and their fury made my nostrils flared,

Somehow I carried my worries home as my silly pride got bared.

And you condemned my choices but still talked about every single one.

This blame game is the worst side-effect of living behind the gun.

My trigger finger shakes when you run marathons with your tongue

But I’ve never wasted a bullet – so you can rumour away your left lung.

-JW