The Myth of Falling off the Edge of the World

Like anyone, of course I find it hard not to feel alone 

or unafraid. And so I understand the child who bites 

hard on her lip: when it bleeds it's the only thing 

the teacher sees, not the larger laceration across 

her knee—she tries to keep that covered with her skirt. 

I understand the man who walks back home with ashen 

face after being fired from his job without cause; and 

the woman who sings the same two faltering bars 

of the only song she remembers while drawing 

her rail-thin legs up to her chest. Sometimes, all the bits  

of suffering  I've ever seen hang out on the ceiling, next to

fears that the future's already starting to dissolve my shape. 

While I lie in bed, I try to quiet the chatter in that sky; remind 

myself the feeling of falling's prelude to sleep and nothing else. 

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