We were standing on a precipice,
the edge of something beautiful,
with our hands
I convinced them to let go,
push me off,
So I was falling down
and there was nothing I could say,
nothing to raise me
back through the air.
made it worse instead.
I tried too late
to make them see
I wasn’t dead.
I had failed to see the crumbled sandstone
lip of the cliff,
could not feel my own ragged fragments
tearing away like a ship spar,
my soul has never found a place to rest.
The salt on the air was not visible
but I could taste it, sour in my stomach,
flavoured glass ripping insides out.
Maybe it wasn’t that, maybe it was the
words I heard
and the ones I could not say,
a flood slammed against a dam wall,
until I had to scream them as it broke.
A vicious uproar,
the tide scared away any that would listen.
There was a desperation to the flow
and desperation stinks.
The good thing is
once the rush has subsided
and all the sticks
have settled again, there won’t be another flood for a long time,
no more risk of being cut
at least until a new version of you
is sucked into an atmosphere
full of stormy tendencies
and unforgiving conclusions.
But if you survive the first time,
you will always stay alive.