We are the ends of a broken bridge, you and me. A city divides us. The gap is too large to jump or leap—a poetic death below our feet.
All I want is for us to connect. I want to be able to walk halfway and meet you in the middle. In the middle is where we share stories and music and poetry. Thoughts, theories, and the contemplation of life. In the middle is where we will love and laugh and live forever.
But the middle is not equal, and I’m unsure it will ever be. For in the middle you will still hold power. Not because you are better or stronger or intellectually more capable than me but simply because your gender dictates so. And as much as you say it doesn’t, you still know it to be true simply by the way you say the unsaid, “I hold power over you.”
You talk about wonderful concepts of marriage and family, but you forget to ask what I want, what I need in this life. For my place isn’t in a kitchen or a home and I have nothing against those who do. It’s just not for me, but it seems as though it is for you.
But the bridge is still broken. You need to build your side and I need to build mine. And that time is needed to learn what path I need to define. Do I give up my values for a romantic story, or do I hold onto my dignity and my glory?
One day our sides will meet and we will never need a bridge again, but will I feel the need to cross? All I have worked for, am I willing to toss?
We are the ends of a broken bridge, you and me. A city divides us. The gap is too large to jump or leap—a poetic death below my feet.