the mess

I worry when people touch me.
I worry about how my skin might splinter,
how I might get stuck in their hands as an infection.
I worry about being broken,
but never about who is breaking me.
And I will follow a soft voice to the top of the tallest building.
I will lean over the edges if he tells me it is safe
and I will swallow the vertigo in my throat
as the ground goes in and out of focus.
I will fall. I will fall. I will fall,
but I will worry about the mess.