Swaying

On a painfully thin edge,

and trying desperately not to fall.

Constantly swaying, constantly breaking, and rebuilding, and reconvincing that just jumping isn’t the right thing.

And yet

that’s what I want to do.

And yet,

that’s what weighs me, the notion of letting go and jumping. It pulls everything out of me,

but I hold myself back and stand on the edge constantly, constantly looking down at “freedom.”

I want to cry for myself.

Accumulating salt builds in the back of my throat, but I am relentless in swallowing it back down. In some way, I think, that is supposed to save me.

Yet as I do this, I kick pebbles over the edge behind my back,

and hopefully something will give way.

Hopefully I will break. Hopefully I will end, and it will all come naturally.

I will forget myself and become as the phoenix.

Hopefully.