I will not sail off the edge
of my heart’s ocean.
I say this over and over until I fall asleep.
The next morning I write that down
and show it to the psychiatrist.
She closes the notebook softly
and whispers don’t come back.
I close the door and look through the glass pane.
She buries her face in her hands.
She can’t watch us do this to
ourselves anymore.
She mourns our inevitable return to the black.
She disappeared after that day.
She had to stop burning
in her own black fire.
I wished her well.
