I Frighten You, I Know
I frighten you, I know,
and for that I am sorry, but
make no apologies.
My excess of being,
the weight of my glory,
encroaches on your modes
of existence, your
storied performances
the exclude me from reality,
deny my provisional role
in the world, for
I am
the player that does fit
the theology of your play,
yet nonetheless,
I play
therefore
I am.
Fear not, beloved.
I beg you: let me play,
let us play together.
I have spent too long
withdrawing into myself,
pausing the dance,
for fear that you
would beat me back
into categories,
restrict our movements
to the same perpetual
steps.
I frighten you, I know,
because you think that
you think
therefore
you are,
and our thoughts conflict
and so, you think, must we.
Look at me.
Don't avert your eyes
or throw a proposition
between us to protect
yourself.
Look at me.
Look at this body.
Touch this body
Touch these scars.
See that I am flesh,
as you are flesh.
See that you and I
will turn to dust.
You frighten me, you know,
and for that, I am sorry, but
make no apologies.
My dread of being the liminal body
that confuses your senses
means that I ache as bodies ache
for mutual celebratory movement.
My fear of transgression
means that I so love our world,
so tremble for shared play,
that I give my one and only body
over to the rabid terror,
the chest-searing prospect
of playing forever outside you.