It's never been the urge

to throw myself under the car,

but it's very nearly been the

indifference if I were not to move

as swiftly as I needed.

Just the feeling that nothing

much would change

if I let go of the precipice;

if I step off the edge,

I won't know what went wrong

until I hit the ground.

I swear, I swore, I swear again.

I can't make this work for me.

But in terror I find myself dreaming

of an existence without existence,

and even in the fear there is relief.

I want to,

I don't want to,

I want to.

God, I'm sick of fighting with myself,

but I know that it's the only way

to stop myself from doing something

that others will regret.

(Nobody uses a guilt trip like someone

with nothing to lose.)

I wring my hands,

and clench my teeth,

and swear my soul its peace

to keep.

But standing still and jumping off

are too close in sensation for

me to know what I do.

Until it's done.

Until I fall.

One way or another,

I'm bound to fall.