Bridges They Are Burning

I’ll start with what a bridge means,

so you understand what I’m really talking about.

A bridge is a connection

linking people, places, ideas, emotions.

It is transition

the movement from one phase of life into another.

It is hope

the belief that something better, or unknown,

waits on the other side.

It is reconciliation

the attempt to repair what cracked.

It is choice and risk

the courage to step into uncertainty.

It is passage

leaving the past while still feeling its pull.

For the longest time,

I believed I was the foundation

the one holding the bridge down.

From my point of view,

from the weight I carried,

I learned that bridges don’t always collapse at once.

Sometimes there is only fire first.

Smoke.

A slow burn.

They burn with apologies left unsaid,

with silence stretched until it snaps,

with words meant to heal

that arrived sharpened instead.

They burn when love is taken for granted,

when trust is bruised and left untreated,

when staying costs more than leaving

and leaving feels like survival.

I watched the smoke rise and wondered

how many times I crossed barefoot,

how often I carried more than my share,

believing the bridge would hold

because I did.

It wasn’t heroic.

It wasn’t noble.

It wasn’t fun crossing with injured legs

yet I still wasn’t asking for halfway.

I was willing to limp all the way across,

bruised, bleeding,

just to meet you on the other side.

Then something shifted.

I realized not every bridge deserves rebuilding.

Some exist only to teach you

where not to return.

And some fires, painful as they are,

are not destruction

they are direction.

So let it burn, if it must.

I will not stand in flames

trying to prove my worth.

I will walk on

with scars, yes,

but also with clarity.

I’ve never been afraid of endings.

I am afraid of staying

where I am already disappearing.