Falling

I live on the third story of a five story building

and I won't lie about how often

I feel like "falling".

"Falling" understates the problem.

There's more to it, obviously.

Maybe "falling" onto a sword like in Roman times

or "falling" into a busy street.

"Falling" face-first into deep waters.

Falling very unlike the angels;

graceless, I'm not a hero, I'm not going to swerve up at the last instant.

I tell myself this, sometimes for comfort,

as shame and disgust pool beneath the goosebumps that rise

when I hear someone yelling across the room,

when I stammer,

when people turn and look at me as I take a seat in the room.

I feel like falling more often than I feel like flying;

the adverse implies more hope than I've learned to discard over the years.

There's gravity, there's conditioned sobriety, 

there's whispers, there's laughter I haven't joined in,

all telling me falling is more worth the effort.