edge

the sky was on the edge of storming: wind
pushed through the trees and clouds stood over me
like my father in a rage.

the first time i met you
i cut my hand on an exposed nail
under my desk. a thin red stream rushed
to the cuticle. i pulled my sleeve down,
afraid of your concern.

maybe
it's all the wine i drank that makes me feel
like the world could break me.
one push in any direction
and i'd be another leaf
cowering across your path.

.you.are.what.you.land.

Usually when I collide with the gravel, my first concern is not my general well-being, but rather whether or not my clothes are intact. This isn't really from a fashion perspective, I suppose, as much as an economical one, since I would really prefer not to have to buy new clothes all the time when they become smeared with blood and grated.
Nowadays, I tend to be more concerned that my tattoo artist will kill me if I get too many chunks of broken glass lodged into my arm, her handiwork.

But despite it all, the fs feeble stall and the fs fastplant on the bank was worth the holes in my shirts, shoes and palms. And the pothole in my pride is patched up, after having been impaled on the merciless barbs of the 8 year olds at the skatepark.