It's true what they say about us; about writers, authors, poets…artists. Everyone we've met, every being we've encountered, laughed with, spoke to, kissed, loved…will never die. They'll live on in our words, stories, music, paintings…never ceasing to exist. And later, we'll move on, bury them in the crevices of our eyes, disappearing into a black abyss that no longer disturbs our intellect. But the love, the pain, the heartbreak, will never truly disappear. They're forever planted in our memory, our hearts, failing to write about anything other than what made us grow, learn, and fear.
Fear.
My ultimate enemy.
A disheartening threat.
I was recently interrupted once, interrupted by a knock on a door, a tapping noise against the window pane. I turned around, broke apart from him to see who witnessed the scene.
Fear stood there, right outside my window, awake, still, its dark eyes casting shadows in mine, its mouth agape. It’s shocked, annoyed, threatened by our actions and the perceivable results. It whispered my name in the rain with distaste, smiled with pride as its gums bled.
I was conflicted, not knowing what to do or which direction to look. And every time I turned away from Fear, and paid no attention to its snarls and gasps, it kept knocking, pounding against the glass with burned fists and sharp nails, screaming in my ears like a lost child, needing to be accepted so it can protect what could be my soulless body.
But there is something about the curve of my neck, something about him touching it, that caused my breath to hitch, for my heart to pause and my lips to part. It's smooth, delicate, accessible…sweet when tasted, soft when touched. Even a gentle caress could make my eyes flutter, my stomach churn.
So when he placed his warm fingers on the curve of my neck, almost covering my throat as we kissed, I had to submit. Even when we kissed for the first time, when his lips pressed against mine, when I tasted his minty, sweet scent, my breath hitched, my heart stopped…and slowly quickened. I ached inside to taste him, and he ached inside to taste me. I suddenly needed more, craved more…not just of him devouring me, but of him himself.
If Fear wasn't watching, if it didn't stare blankly at our tongues, I would have sighed in its presence. I would have moaned his name if Desire took over and our mouths became thirsty, grazed lower. I would have cursed during heated movements and erotic sounds until I could feel everything, and everything all at once.
But I had to be careful, be steady and cautious, aware of my ways and initial intentions with this man because Fear, the Devil's right hand, waited outside for me, waiting for me to leave a good man and come join it for supper…which I unfortunately did.
So I'm writing about it.
I'm writing about him.
I'm writing about Fear.
The recent encounter I had with Fear.
Because tonight, tonight is when I'll murder it, when I'll slaughter Fear until its pupils bleed and its host gets eaten by maggots, scarfing down flesh, starving for bones.
Its perceptions about my future and overall goals will not damn me to the gates of Hell, and I refuse to be owned by it, taken by its claws that dig in my brain as if hoping I'll die in surrender.
Tonight will be the last time Fear takes control of my worth, and I'll happily kiss the man in front of it again, especially if he'll be the one to destroy it first.