On the Edge

I stand on the edge of the platform, toes just beyond the beginning of the forbidden yellow line.

The tunnels reek of mildew.

I see already chewed gum, complete with dust-ridden and mint-green tendrils bridging the gap between the sidewalk and the sole of a shoe.

Two days ago, the ear-splitting crack of a weapon firing pierced the stale subway air as  a bullet penetrated the layers of skin of one person, in the wrong place, in the wrong time.

That could have been me.

It could have been me enclosed in the wailing ambulance, my life that was stripped by one man, with one gun, in a random station in New York City.

I know what the yellow crime scene tape and the splatter of scarlet on the platform represents.I

My naïveté feels like a fingernail wedged in between the end of a digit and the vacuum seal of a car door, slowly being torn away from stability.

My faith in humanity is crumpling, a baby-pink origami crane reduced to a useless ball of paper under an unforgiving sneaker.

I understand that someone was shot here the other day, and I could be next.

I understand that I can no longer expect someone else to protect me.

This is growing up.