Am I the thumb, built merely to oppose?
One sacrifice, alone, so to grip and expose?
Or am I the index, to hold ourselves accountable,
Keep the focus and hold myself responsible?
Should I be the middle, the longest and loudest?
As a reminder that insults stem from cowardice?
What of the ring and the bonding entailed,
Of holy matrimony and faithfulness revealed?
Or the littlest of all, on which every promise falls?
For there is little that trust will not do for us all.
I fear for myself, as the thumb by his lonesome.
'Cause I can touch on all five and still find myself broken.