On The Edge Poem by Raphael Gouws

The wind licks at my face,
cold and sharp,
like the truths I've been trying not to taste.

Beneath me, the black water breathes,
slow and heavy,
like the heartbeat of the world that forgot my name.

I lean on the railing,
palms slick with night air,
and I wonder if the stars see me,
or if they're just
holes in the fabric of heaven
where God's light has already bled out.

Once, there was a spark in my eyes—
a soft fire,
warm enough to keep me alive
on the loneliest nights.
Now it's gone,
smothered by the smoke of habits I can't kill,
ashes I keep breathing in
because they taste like the only thing that's mine.

I'm tired of cycles,
of building myself up just to fall,
of the same trap in a different shape,
the same addiction wearing new clothes,
the same voices whispering
that surrender is the only way out.

I met someone
who wears her wounds like I do—
ugly, jagged,
stitched with thread that never matches.
She's broken in ways I understand,
but deep down I know
not every bond is worth holding,
and not every smile means safety.
Still,
I can't stop seeing her face in my mind,
like it's a lighthouse I'm sailing toward,
even if the shore is made of knives.

I flinch at shadows.
I flinch at love.
I flinch at my own reflection.
Her ghost still moves inside my skin,
the one who turned affection into a weapon.
I tell myself I'm stronger now,
but strength feels hollow
when I'm using it just to stand still.

I miss being numb—
the quiet frost inside my veins,
when I didn't have to feel
the splinters of the world
pressing under my ribs.
Now the sadness comes in waves,
and I'm too tired to swim.

I pour kindness into the cracks of this world
but it drinks me dry
and throws me away.
One mistake, and they see me—
not the good,
not the fight,
just the fumble.
So I stumble back into habits,
because the silence afterward
feels like home.

The bridge hums under my feet.
The water below
is a mouth that never speaks,
only swallows.
The darkness here isn't cruel,
not like people are—
it's honest.
It doesn't pretend to care.

I'm not sure if I'm standing here to feel the wind,
or if I'm waiting for it to push me.
Either way,
I know the light inside me is fading,
and maybe that's the only way
the night will finally see me.