Kincardine Bridge.

if home is where the heart is,
then I'm never home.

my home is an
eating
breathing
shitting
animal.
and nothing more.

so I suppose this is second best.
this rusty dishevelled broken piece of steel suspended over an anorexic river.
and tonight it is where I stand.

I wish it were more romantic.
that perhaps the aged brown metal structure was instead an aged megalith, vines sprouting from cracks in the rock.
or maybe a thin newly finished stretch of cherry planks stringing from one shore to the other.
something worth a reporter's interest.
but no.
I have my rust bucket.

the river below me stinks of oil.
the rust from the bridge falls into the slick like snowflakes.
I watch every occasional car that passes. wondering what could possibly compell them to cross this death trap at night.
and consequently,
I think of what drove me here.

about what makes this my home.
or my heart.
or my brain.
or my pancreas.
or my stomach.
why does it hold memories that I can't live without.

or,
perhaps,
why did it hold memories that I can't live without.

and why is it making me feel like this.
and what are my choices now.
and which choice is the right one.
and why are there so many fucking questions in the first place.

how stereotypical.
me, the angst-ridden, stubborn, depressed teenager on a bridge in the middle of the night.
contemplating the future and whether or not it deserves to exist.
or whether my memories deserve a place in my real world.
making a choice.

and I choose Kincardine Bridge.

they say love is like a brick.
that you can build a house or sink a dead body.
tonight that body belongs to me.