Feeling scared.
I’m scared of Whole Foods. I’m scared of claustrophobia and of wide open spaces. I’m scared of kneeling on the floor, scared of bleeding and of bruises. I’m scared of research and of door latches and locksmiths and their drills. I’m scared of all the days of the week except for Thursday. At least I used to be before Thursday came and smiled and showed me her claws too. I’m scared of islands and of mountains and of soft sand beaches. I’m scared of trails and of highways and homesteads and high rises. I’m scared of plastic and of metal and shoepolish and crayola tempura paint. I’m scared of sugar and of lemons and plates that spark in the microwave. We used to eat off of Elvis’s face, serve salad on The Kiss, used to kiss on the couch but I’m scared of that too now. I’m scared of factories and farms, greenhouses and your little fire escape. Scared of pencils and switchblades and feather boas, feather dusters. I never knew I was allergic to dust until a week ago when they took my blood and spun it twelve times fast.
