I stepped close to the edge
Smoked a cigarette
Close to the edge of no return
Close to the edge of having nothing left
Leaving behind all that I have known
Close to the line of
Don't step over it this time
Close to losing my way back
To the planting of the seed
To being the one in need
Sand in my hand the conviction that I lack
Closer to my finger on the trigger
Placing my mouth on the barrel of the gun
I'm not talking suicide
This is a metaphor for life
Closer to it all coming undone
You always tell me the name of your favorite book
Yet the next month you tell me of the one you've read that you like one hundred times better
You've told me your favorite color
But once your eyes have rested upon a new one,
Your favorite color alters to the one you find more appealing
You always listen to your favorite song
But by now you've played on repeat at least hundreds of different "favorite" songs of yours
This is why I'm scared when you call me your favorite
And I constantly fear that when someone better crosses your path
I will be tossed over your shoulder like a piece of trash
And forgotten for eternity
You told me to love,
But all I could remember was hate.
"Child," you said,
"What are you doing?
"Get out before it's too late."
But I'm afraid I've tread too far-
My feet are so accustomed to this terrain.
It's like second nature-
Almost like home.
You're calling me
Beckoning me to listen
But I've turned my head away once more.