I am so tired of men assuming I will love them,
regardless of how close to the ledge they push me,
and grip my hand at the moment just before tipping.
I would rather fall freely than feel the endless
taunt of vertigo;
the dizzying weakness of seeing just beyond.
Swaying, but you reach for me.
I wish my hands were smaller,
so they may slip from yours;
So I may fall through all the layers of despair.
I wish my heart were smaller,
so it had less room for your excuses;
So I may land lighter on my feet.
I am so tired of men assuming
I will not run and leap.