There is a place only I can go.

A walking place, a simple tightrope strung between two rocky crags.

When winter comes the rocks freeze and mist settles between the mountains,

hiding the dragons,

hiding the knights.

I walk the tightrope eternally, picking my way back and forth.

Crows watch and occasionally settle to laugh at my

never-ending dance.

Sometimes, when the moon is gone, I think of what would happen if

I were to trip. Would it hurt to fall or would the sensation be

an escape, like flying, before the darkness took me?

I think about the monsters that snuggle in the shadows,

about how they would love for me to visit them.

Sometimes, while pacing back and forth on my tightrope

I picture what it would be like to walk away—to follow an unbeaten path

away from my crags. What wonders would I see? Princess and villains?

Dragons and

knights?

Secretly I am terrified; will I miss the world if I keep walking

the tightrope? Or will I be crushed under the hooves of unicorns as they run

blissfully by? I am so frightened to stay

and so frightened to go.

And every time, I always decide

that the safest thing to do is to wait

for the dragons

and knights

to come to me.