[10 September, 2010]


Dear giant,

We are close, and you know just how to cut me.

I know I do it, too, but my weapons seem like measly butter knives: weak, unformulated, flat. You come at me with full-on sharp and dangerous machetes. Articulated and precise, you are confident. You are calculating. We both see that you know how to bring me down.

There's nothing but a ring of panic in my ears. I flinch, I throw my punches in fear and desperation. As always, there is no shield. I run, I shrivel, I look up.

You stab and I bleed, even if I can't really cry. All that's left to say is: congratulations, you won.

Love and un-love,

0 sighs or salutations:

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