She sits on the precipice of my office
,
eyes shut tight
against the gravity of fate
that pulls incessantly at her
to focus on the abyss
of uncertainty
at her feet
Resenting the dreadful choices of choosing
to surrender her breasts (her beautiful breasts!)
or perhaps
baby dreams going awry 
or perhaps
to learn of an embedded suicide cell that one fine day will lead her brain to commit a slow and unspeakable act of self-destruction
How can I help her see that there is more fear
on the ledge
than in the leap?
