When I am angry, I run so fast my chest burns. I run until my muscles stretch apart and everything protected by the cage of bone pulses bright. I run to the edge of a roof of a tall tall building. I stop just before I fall into the distance, my legs rubbery and trembling. I hold myself at the precipice, on the tips of my toes, knees bent, head thrown back. I breathe in the wind. I scream as loud as I can, my lips wet yet cracked.
On sad days, when the sky is yellow and gray, the air cool, nearly indifferent, I walk along the perimeter of the roof of a tall tall building. I put one bare foot in front of the other, gripping the concrete with my toes. I use my arms for balance. I sing melancholy songs about wayward sons. I look neither up nor down. I look straight ahead, waiting for the sky to change.
Some nights, I am tired. The world is heavy and low. I lay on the warm roof of a tall tall building. I smile up at the moon and wish I could see stars. Sometimes, I am not alone. I am on the warm roof, laying with another warm body, our bare limbs entwined, sharing breath, holding hands. The world spins slowly while the sky holds still. I listen to the whispers of sweet nothings, and tell sweet little lies.
In the summer, the city is hot, so hot that it steams. I wear shorts and a tank top and a pair of flip-flops. I sit on the edge of the roof of a tall tall building with an ice-filled bucket that holds four cold beers. I stare straight into the sun, feel my skin burn brown brown brown gold. I carefully peel each bottle’s label, let it dry and shrink in my hand. I hold the sweaty bottles against the back of my neck then take long lazy sips until my teeth hum, become numb. I hold the empty bottles over the edge, let them go, watch as they float slow then fall fast. I listen for the glass against pavement, and dance to the splintering sound.
When I am happy, when the sky above me is white and the world below is clear, I keep running right over the edge of my tall tall building. I throw my arms to the side, open my chest. I close my eyes. I float slow. I fall fast.
Roxane Gay’s writing appears or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Monkeybicycle, Keyhole, Necessary Fiction, Night Train, Storyglossia and others. She is the associate editor of PANK and can be found online at Roxane Gay.Com.