The Bridge


I’ve thought about being someone else for the longest time.

Wash out the blonde, brunette, waterdown the hazel,

even stir in some testosterone.

How much have I sacrificed being who I am,

when I could have been someone else?

I like me. But I bore myself.

I cross the same bridge,

with matches in my pocket;

I come across the same Dead End,

the street name never comes to mind.

I’ve given away too many spare keys.

Too scared to change the locks, I move on, away.

These intellects follow me and mold into

coworkers, lab partners, best friends.

These molds invite me to meet at the same bridge.

Sometimes I leave my lighter at home.

I put too much faith in people, people

who laugh and communicate through touch.

They know I trust action over word,

so they burrow themselves deeper into my boundary line.

Whisper compliments in one ear;

dig acrylics into my side, digs I translate to tickles,

as they push, scratch, marking direct routes to my heart.

They perform x-rays with just one hug;

never knew I was that easy to read.

No one would meet a man alone on a bridge.

A man – six-foot-two, full beard, dark eyes –

has no time to lace something in flames unless

it’s his cigar after a good fuck.

These intellects would shiver shy in the presence

of this man. These intellects may flash a smile

to him, but butterflies will return to their cocoons;

this man has someone waiting for him back home.

Sometimes I wish I was somebody else.

I’m tired of worrying about

every single thing outside my house.

I want to be somebody else, walking across

that bridge and reach the end,

as me.


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