Dis 7, 2001

I fear you because you can look me straight in the eye. As if I was open for the reading. Like some book lying on the table at the mercy of every wet wind that comes through the flung-open windows. Hopeless, helpless book with brittle pages on an stormy afternoon.

And when I look down or sideways or anywhere just to escape your gaze, I fear you more. Because I know that by turning, I run or hide in effect. And if you wanted to play predator, I would fall prey. And you can bare me, split me open and melt me at the same time. Like a hot knife on butter. Gutless, I would entirely be at your mercy. And all my metaphors would yield their meaning.

That is a given too. But that is not all.

Because when I run or hide or play prey, I fear you most. Because you can corner and consume me like a host of dreams on a sleeping delusional. Or as phalanges of images and failed hopes on that dying lady expecting her whole life to pass before her eyes.

You can prey upon me, an onslaught of dreams. And my most sublime fear, the fear that still defines what I am or will be, is that you won't.