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 


      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



I frighten you, I know,

because you think that

you think 


       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



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.