Edges

I’m morbidly fascinated with edges. The edges of blades, glinting and indifferent. The edges of rooftops, sudden and unforgiving. The edges that separate me from another, the invisible lines and definitions of our relationships, the tangible ridges of our clothes.

Compulsively I inch forward and run my finger along them, or stand with my toes just off the side. I peer over and feel the intoxicating rush knowing that I could fall headlong into an unstoppable descent. Knowing curiosity or boredom or stupidity may cause me to jump without my feet ever receiving orders from my mind. With reckless abandon I might just slip or press too hard and once again become familiar with the warm scent of my blood.

And you. You look like a hospital rooftop with beautiful boundaries my automatic legs were programmed to cross. Veins and bones lie like borders beneath your skin, yellow whispering warning tape, walls that were built to be impassable. I stand peering over your edges, holding my hand above the fall with distant alarm bells ringing somewhere in the corners of my mind. But an unrestrained smile tugs at my lips, and my knees shake as I submit to the irreversible demands of gravity.

I never could resist a good bad decision.

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