You.

You stared into the sky

as if a shallow “amen”

could pluck me from the rooftop

and carry me on a gentle breeze

down to you.

But,

such is life

that wishes and dreams

are best told in storybooks,

not

shouted from ten stories down.

So,

your words,

with questionable sincerity,

distantly droned in my ears

among the whips and whooshes

of passing gusts,

those that dared

to finally bring me peace.

I.

I knew how this would go,

watching my past selves

fall gracefully

through a permanent solution

to a problem you swore

would eventually pass,

and you,

having ignored

every foreshadowed sign,

begging me

to please save myself,

pleading for me

to step back and suffer further,

if not for me,

then for you.

As if my burdens

weren’t already

buckling my legs,

shoving me against the wind

toward a hesitant attempt to fly.

As if my rooftop paralysis

was a grab for attention

and not

a solemn consideration.

How about you

save yourself

before you try and talk me down

from a ledge

you’ve never looked over,

a fear

you’ve never faced.

How about you

save yourself

the effort of performing

your artificial act

with its worthless wisdom

regurgitated from a therapist’s office

out of obligation,

not genuine care.

How about you

save your breath

instead of pestering me

with your hollow concerns—

those spewed

only so you can choke out an

“I never would’ve known”

over a closed casket

among family and friends

who absolutely should’ve known

with bottled tears

dripping from your self-conscious eyes.

How about you

let me fall

so you can feel good about yourself

when your Facebook eulogy

gets a handful of likes.

How about you

just let me fall,

because

until you’ve felt the rooftop wind

billow between buildings

and blow through your hair,

and longed for it to carry away

the persistent pain

in your broken body,

in your ever-racing mind—

until you’ve known

the static stillness

in staring at neon lights

a hundred feet below

and felt the harsh pull

of potential relief

yank at your chest—

until you’ve stood

on the edge of the tenth story

and fantasized yourself

free-falling into finality,

smiling on the way down—

you’ll never understand.

So,

shut your deceitful mouth.

You have no idea

what the fuck you’re talking about.