Bridge Pee
by Victor Giannini—Age 23—Brooklyn, NY
Early on I knew if you can apologize with enough sincerity, you’ll be forgiven for anything. And if you can enjoy faking that sincerity, then you can do anything. I’ve never been able to fake it. It has either shot out in a thick hot stream like this piss I’m spraying this bridge with, or I felt it annoying my bladder, not enough to push out.
The piss smells nasty but it’s a stink that came from within, nice and cathartic. I’m helping the streetlamps turn the bridge yellow, and can’t help but think of all the faces I’ve stared at since I finally became aware of my own existence. They melt together, swirling in the piss, staring back as a pulsing mess of eyes and lips.
I don’t call you guys anymore. And it’s funny that I’m thinking about you while holding my dick, staring at the city. The farthest parts of the city are weird rectangles with colored squares shining out. But when you look at the closest part, it’s bent, rusted fence breaking away around a long unused playground, bordered by condemned freeways.
You guys don’t call anymore. I can’t blame you. You’d hear the same voice on the other end but know it’s just some weird illusion formed by beer at 3 AM.
And You in particular. It’s hilarious that I’d lay on your floor and trace every thing I’d ever done as being significant in leading to you. The culmination of my fate. Wrapping you in my arms, smelling your tears, eating your smiles. It was the closest I’ve ever got to leaving myself behind, forgetting that terrible day I became aware of my own existence.
Now I’m afraid to call your family. I’ll either find out that you aren’t who I remember, that that little girl doesn’t exist anymore…or just confirm that little boy is gone too.
I’m still standing on this bridge, unable to fake the sincerity to say I’m sorry for being less than I’d hoped to be. I can’t say sorry for not caring it’s the same for you. Still standing here, staring at a city long abandoned, instead of walking in those rusted playgrounds. I’m watching my piss steam and spill off the bridge, and
when I get home I’ll want to call all of you, and you can be damn sure that I won’t.
7 Comments