Everyday

I look into my eyes,
my reflection
in this dirty mirror
and ask, "Why not?"
I hold a knife in my hand,
my cold fingers,
my cold face
reflected in the knife's shine.
I ask, "Why not?"
I stand
on the edge of the roof.
The wind blowing across my face.
The ground spiraling under me.
I ask, "Why not?"
My foot lifts,
as if on its own,
and feel the instability of life,
the freedom of the air.
My foot comes down.
I stare at my foot
with a look of disappointment,
ashamed,
I ask, "Why not?"