She told me that she had no sense of danger--
that when she lived in Colorado she hiked
by herself and didn’t heed the warning
of the sun dropping beneath the horizon.
And I can tell. Now that I’m doing parkour
and trying to keep up with her
while she climbs to the top of the chapel
on campus, the bruises on my knees
and the dirt on my butt remind me
of my cowardice. I never tell people I’m afraid
of heights, but now seems like the appropriate time
to expose myself. She’s already climbed off
the ladder by the time she leans over the roof
and calls down to me. “Don’t be scared. You’ll be fine.”
I want to tell her I might not be.
The truth is, I’m terrified. Her sense of danger
might be lacking, but I’m too familiar with the fact that
what goes up always comes down harder.
I’m hypervigilant, thanks to the PTSD.
People look at me confused when I tell them.
They wanna say, “what war did you fight in?”
It was no Vietnam, but it was violent.
Bloodthirsty. Maniacal. Someone wanted me to suffer
for years and years and years.
Someone wanted to win. Someone wanted
to show me I was nothing but a coward.
Someone wanted me to fall.
But I haven’t. Yet. I’m somehow still balancing
on this ladder, trusting that the crusty thing won’t
give out from under my converse.
Meanwhile, she kicks off her shoes and hangs
her toes from the side of the roof. I’ve always known
she was braver than me.
Every step higher makes my legs shake
a little more and maybe it’s time for me to admit it--
I am a coward. And that’s ok.
As long as I don’t forget it.
I survive if I remember there’s always something
that can hurt me.
Whether it’s falling from two-hundred feet up
or falling for the girl who greets me at the top
and pulls me higher--
I know the inevitable pain of falling back down.
that when she lived in Colorado she hiked
by herself and didn’t heed the warning
of the sun dropping beneath the horizon.
And I can tell. Now that I’m doing parkour
and trying to keep up with her
while she climbs to the top of the chapel
on campus, the bruises on my knees
and the dirt on my butt remind me
of my cowardice. I never tell people I’m afraid
of heights, but now seems like the appropriate time
to expose myself. She’s already climbed off
the ladder by the time she leans over the roof
and calls down to me. “Don’t be scared. You’ll be fine.”
I want to tell her I might not be.
The truth is, I’m terrified. Her sense of danger
might be lacking, but I’m too familiar with the fact that
what goes up always comes down harder.
I’m hypervigilant, thanks to the PTSD.
People look at me confused when I tell them.
They wanna say, “what war did you fight in?”
It was no Vietnam, but it was violent.
Bloodthirsty. Maniacal. Someone wanted me to suffer
for years and years and years.
Someone wanted to win. Someone wanted
to show me I was nothing but a coward.
Someone wanted me to fall.
But I haven’t. Yet. I’m somehow still balancing
on this ladder, trusting that the crusty thing won’t
give out from under my converse.
Meanwhile, she kicks off her shoes and hangs
her toes from the side of the roof. I’ve always known
she was braver than me.
Every step higher makes my legs shake
a little more and maybe it’s time for me to admit it--
I am a coward. And that’s ok.
As long as I don’t forget it.
I survive if I remember there’s always something
that can hurt me.
Whether it’s falling from two-hundred feet up
or falling for the girl who greets me at the top
and pulls me higher--
I know the inevitable pain of falling back down.