There she stands,
created from necessity and staring up at me,
her body, bright under the kind light of the moon.
It is time to be true to myself,
but I take one step,
full of dread and then I hesitate,
staring at the quiet confidence of the bridge before me,
who stares back towards me,
asking what I’m so afraid of.
There may be voices beneath her,
planks that go missing,
parts of her body that will not survive our journey together,
and she has the audacity to ask,
“What are you so afraid of?”
They say that the longest journey begins with the smallest step,
but small steps feel substantial when you look down,
suddenly confronted by everything you have to lose.
I tell her that I’m not afraid,
I’ve never been afraid,
because I am not that kind of girl.
I tell her that I am a child of the sea,
if she were to drop me into the river beneath her,
it wouldn’t be such a crime.
I am, of course, lying.
I may be a child of the sea,
but I have no wish to drown,
and I may be afraid,
but something about her tells me that I can’t confide in her,
so with my eyes closed,
and my lies beneath my cheap shoes,
I rush along the bridge,
walking with such purpose that I think I may be possessed,
because if I am quick, and if I feign confidence,
I will make it across before she can convince me I can’t.