My fingertips grip at nothing on the edge of a slippery *****.
Aching to hold onto the sanity I feel I deserve,
But nothing's sane. Nothing's tame.
And in that sense I have nothing.
To let go would be a sin, wouldn't it?
To succumb to the numbness of the emptiness,
I don't know how to feel, but have I ever known?
Maybe it'd be freeing to fall.