A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Greetings, you’ve reached the end of my tether. 
I feel as though I am meant to welcome you, 
and thank you for coming. Is that the correct social nicety?
I’ve been here for a while,
at the end of my tether.  I wasn’t aware an ending
can last so long. I suppose I imagined 
the rope would slip through my hand 
and I would fall to my death
before I’d even had the chance to process the event. 
Word games. Always word games. 
The hint was in the saying all along. 
Tether.
Yes, I am here at the end of it, gripping with bleeding hands
despite the fact it is tied to me.
I sway in every breeze, and the rope frays slowly,
but it is made of tougher material than I expected.
Is that why no one realises?
Is that why they think I have this in hand?
(I do not; it has me)
And you, why are you here?
To gawk and gape 
at this woman dangling above the abyss?
Certainly not to lend a hand.