They’ve prophecied my doom —
there are people outside my door
with stakes and torches
yelling for blood and — for what?
I’ve climbed up the mountain.
Perched on a cliff,
the drop looks dangerous,
and there’s still more to climb,
but my rope has been snapped,
soles ripped from my shoes,
eyes blinded by the fierce wind —
and, for the first time in a long while,
I consider walking out the door
and plunging down the steel incline
to the crowd of people below
who cheers for my failure.
But I guess that’s how it’s supposed to be,
since my fate has been written down
before I learned how to think.