I play on the edge of a building. 

Thousands of stories tall. 

Why?, they ask me. Why? 

My bare, inexperienced feet hurt from the rough cement, the shards of glass and metal littering the edge. Yet here I stand. But why?

The dark, swooping height consumes all, makes my blood rage in my ears. It terrifies me for reasons known and reasons unknown.

Yet here I stand. But why?

The lamppost’s buzzing waves don’t quite reach the edge of this building. The shadows swallow me, make me even more unseen. A target for thieves of all sorts. 

Yet here I stand. But why?

The wind is loud here, where I stand. It whispers, screams, all around me. Telling me things, all forms of crude things. They all make me want me to fold in on myself and to throw myself apart. To implode and explode simultaneously. 

Yet here I stand. But why?

The rain clouds are held above the edge, dark and gloomy, ever looming. They drizzle down on me, fill my eyes, and leak down from there. Stinging all the way down.

Yet here I stand. But why?

The interchanging noise and silence leave me overloaded, screaming one moment and blank, staticky the next. Forever falling, conflicted, a broken record- repeating the same few notes again and again.

Yet here I stand. But why?

Why is the question I’m forever asking myself, my dear so-called friends

Perhaps because the hurt covers the emptiness, provokes more feeling and stimulation than my boredom will ever.

Perhaps because I’m curious what is down there, thousands of stories below life. Is falling down there so different from not falling at all?

Perhaps because when my feet dangle over the edge, I know if I shift forward ever so slightly, I have that chance to never smell the sewage again. 

I play on the edge of a building

I play on the edge of a building.