“Stands At the Edge”
She stands at the edge of something unnamed, A silence so loud it swallows her name. One hand holds a check— numbers scrawled like prophecy, Enough to help… or seal her fate. The other, a gun—cold, certain, direct, No legal fees. No chance to reflect. The voices, relentless, curl close to her ear, “Just do it,” they whisper, feeding her fear. They don’t say which— Click or ink. Bang or bank. They just want silence and don’t care who to thank. She does the math, A debt that never sleeps, She’s worth more dead, Living cost more than she’s worth Hope is a rumor, Help’s just a ghost, And faith—well, it costs what she doesn’t have most. She pictures two possibilities — and neither is life. One gets a funeral, the other a number. She breathes like a woman learning how to drown, while standing on solid ground. Then— one hand lowers. She prays one more time. Because not all choices end in a switch. Sometimes she wants life. Sometimes she wants death. Sometimes she just wants to disa...