the edge

the edge is a tough place to be.

almost losing it, not quite together. generally dissatisfied without being able to name a problem. part immaculate, part squalor. it's itchy. it's the way burned-out addicts are generally depicted— twitchy, kinetic, uncertain, searching, not seeing what's in front of their faces. it's a pretty girl, disheveled, beyond caring, oblivious. it's picking at a scab— senseless, painful, fascinating.

how does one deal with it? she keeps looking for something to grab on to, or a hook or crook to drag her away from the edge and back into the center, or into the fold, or at least somewhere from which she can't see the crags and pointy rocks down there all threatening-like. it doesn't appear, and she wanders around on the edge, pulling at her hair and gnashing her teeth.

she needs a mouthguard. they're expensive, though, and insurance doesn't cover them.

so instead she puts on music, and sit cross-legged in a chair, rocking and humming.

and tomorrow she'll get up and go to work.