The Edge

We crawl and we cry,
we live and die,
and everyone relates
because these are
dog eared hallmark emotions
of the human condition.

Some of us, though,
are far too damaged
to shed a tear.

We lay awake at night
counting sheep and sirens,
breaths and cobwebs
spun from spiders who
dampened our spirit
with soft silken shade.

Sometimes we laugh.
At times, we even inspire.
But it’s not from talent or practice
or anything that could be
perceived as trade or trait.

Those suppressed few of us
have mastered the art
of hiding in plain sight.
Anywhere else just feels
too much like a sorority.

We’ve endured the hazing,
we’ve shouldered the ass-end
of others cruel comedy.
And don’t think, for one second,
that we didn’t notice
how your name calling graduated
from snot-nose to PHD blows.

You listen to the murmur of our hearts
with gold plated stethoscopes,
and label us with names like:
Clinically Depressed,
Bipolar, Cutter,
Suicidal…
Hoping to push us
from the ledge,
with your projected psyche
and Molotov cocktail
of anti-depressants,
but you won’t succeed.
Because we’ve been
standing there,
toes dangling over,
staring at that final dive,
into the unexplored unknown
for so long now,
that we’ve become
the very edge you
so cautiously fear.

3 thoughts on “The Edge

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