Looking over the edge of a cliff
is comparable to fat fingers threading a needle.
The voice in my head mocks my fears.
Licking black berries in the fall with my mother
reminds me that all that glitters isn’t gold.
I look to the clouds and jump,
whirring the whole way down.
My audience cries shake it off.
I’m dripping wet.
Tic tac?
No.
Towel.