If there was a road that guaranteed permanent safe passage - I wouldn’t step out onto its well manicured path. Sometimes I prefer it when the bridge is crumbling, ropes frayed, body swinging wildly from side to side as I run for my life. Having to leap from disintegrating wooden slats - just managing to grab onto an aptly placed vine as the last remnants careen into the abyss below me like falling domino bricks. Sometimes I just jump straight into the abyss.
The safety is suffocating.
Sometimes I need the hint of saccharine death on the tip of my tongue in the morning. Just to remind me I’m still here. Other times I just like to release the fear and curl up in the disarming sunlight. Shadowed by the thorns of rambling roses on white man trellis. Patterned cotton underwear bared to the heavens with nothing else protecting my dignity but the purr of the neighbour’s cat and wet ice-cream running down my fingers, chin and thighs.
Sometimes I see the angels pleasuring me. Golden beings entering my sacred spaces. Helping me remember my wholeness. Sometimes I’m nothing but the road itself, I’m nothing but the journey. An 8-bit prima donna, decorated in glittery face-paint and overly embellished stories of her travels. Like Jack Kerouac, a lone and poor misogynist, gathering my limbs in sexual trysts with floaty petticoats. Gliding by on other people’s gas and the smell of a one dollar bill that pays for more than it can afford - making ends meet by meeting ends.
Sometimes I’m just wrapped in woolen and scratchy blanket by the fire. Whiskey in hand, pad and pen in clawed clutch. Wishing for the nonsensical ticking clock to bring me more nonsense than I can manage. Just for an instant, within the faint glow of the burning manuka fronds, I see your face. And I feel hate. I long to leave it all behind. Hop on that fraying and falling bridge one last time.