Fear is ending up as you:
potato chips crusting your fingers
as you regale us with tales of the time
you spent flying with gryphons,
of your twenty-three inch waist,
twenty-three also at your own wedding
where you carried lilies, auguring your own
future. For years your body grew bulbous,
fruiting. After a while, it just grew.
When I find myself spinning my yarns,
I shudder, snip the threads. It is so easy to slip
into you. Fear is that there is such a thing
as fate, as red threads, as karmic parallels.
Needles and knives sliding under skin,
choking down the hundred and thirteenth pill,
I gasp awake at the little nightmares,
watch other women with their husbands
slung over their arms like handbags.
At least they knew how to stop at two.
Prompt: Write a poem expressing something you’ve always wanted to say to someone, but couldn’t to their face.