Tightrope

You like it up there.

The roar of the crowd,

their breathless awe

as you deny the siren, gravity.

You like the danger,

the all-present knowledge

that one slip would be enough.

You like the air up there,

belonging only to you and the rope

and your breezy steps.

You don’t see me down here,

squeezing my eyes shut

and flicking them

open again with fear.

You don’t see me biting my tongue,

my knuckles white against my mouth.

You don’t see me laughing

(harder than anyone else)

when you step safely to the end,

my pride and love, my terrible relief.

I hate it up here.

The bloodthirsty screams of the crowd,

waiting with bated breath for me to fall,

praying for it (the bastards).

I hate the danger,

knowing that one day I’ll slip,

my foot will falter, step upon nothing.

I hate the air up here,

the cold loneliness

with only myself and the screams

for company.

But I see you down there,

your beautiful face turned up,

not ecstatic or malicious,

but white and worried.

I do it for you…

for the end of the rope,

when you clap and clap,

and my heart falls down

down, down

into your open eyes.