"You don't have to jump with me."

I know.

"You can just go home."

I know.

My shoe slips ever so slightly and my body wobbles, my arms extend so that I can keep my balance. Her eyes are closed and tears are running down her face, causing her hair to stick to her perfect white skin. Her lips are full and bathed with honey and gold, but it looks duller here and now.

She's perfect in every way.

And here she is.

Standing on a ledge.

And I'm here standing with her.

Not because I care about her.

The world is full of imperfect girls and I am one of them. My lips aren't painted with gloss and gold and my hair is wiry and brushy.

I'm broken glass next to a perfect mirror lined with gold and love and radiance.

I should be the one crying.

Her tear-filled eyes look at me.

She has a question on her perfect lips.

Her poisonous honey lips.

She never looks scared when she changes in the girls' locker room, I do.

Her perfect lips, perfect body, perfect life.

So now I'm sitting here wondering why?

Her perfect eyes look me up and down with her honey-cola eyes, shimmering with bubbling tears. 

It can't be so hard being perfect.

Because she does it so well.

Her will isn't allowed to break like mine.

I hold my hand out.

This ledge is a treaty for us.

Her perfect nails grasp my hand in a formal signature of unity that will never be seen at school.

I'll help you Miss. Perfect.

If you help me too.