She Stands on the edge, feels the cliff on her shoulder. She just needs to scull from the bottle, pop from the packet, lick the froth. Just needs a little something to pull her back from the drop.
Prescribed, fermented or brewed: however it comes. Just take the edge off and give her a break from the weight. It crumbles her knees and pulls her down towards the fire. She cannot stand any higher. She aches for a disruption, from the image that she sees, the something she’ll never be.
Let her rest a while. Take pause among the sting the wine would bring, the euphoria of chemicals, the adrenalin of a latte to get her through another day.
She can’t just keep standing there, on the edge.