Burn.

The rope is too frayed To tie any kind of knot At the end And I am sliding down it Stopping Only when snagged By rope splinters All paper-cut-like And then just as fast As it cut me I was out of the fray And what remained Was skin and was bones And my shaking Unchecked And unyielding From clinging so long To the rope as I do Before I lose my grip On most things I want to be sure of What mattered and That I stopped Sobbing When you stopped Listening Or that I began Hurting Myself and then you Just to see how Much I had left What was left By rope or by hope, Seemed a subtlety At best, and instead Wounds deceivingly Deep, and if I could I would feel and Recoil In suddenly slowed And also in pain, As I remember almost What happens when The blood comes And it starts to run Down and out Draining from veins Into hands Nobody would hold.