I falter at the cusp of a chasm,
My frail muscles taught with the exertion of standing tall.
Hissing, dripping, whispers caress my ears,
Promising escape when there is none.

I hurl my body away from the dark void,
Towards the newly pinked horizon, sounds of laughter, and warmth;
But I am held back.

Jagged and thorned vines twine around my ankles, emerging from the gravel,
Pricking droplets of blood as they travel.
Eyes burning in fear, the ground meets my face.
Sharp pebbles ingrain themselves in my palm and my cheek.

I claw at the soil, desperately dragging myself away from the frigid chasm so close.
The more I grasp at hope, the more constricting the vines become.
Never do they pry me into the void, as I had sworn it off so long ago,
But I cannot leave the edge all the same.

Tears muddle the blood on my cheeks,
Diluting the apparent horror beneath.
Plainly sprawled on the hard ground, passerbys comment on my proximity to the precipice.
They ask why I have not left, why I cannot commit either way.
My lungs sting with the urge of sharing the truth,
But I cannot articulate the wildness at the edge
Of
The
World.