My fears are ordinary, like others, I suppose.

I fear dogs, flying, darkness, lighting a match, a lighter.
I am afraid that love is only fear under another name, fear of loss.

I fear that I will never be able to touch anything again.

I am afraid that I will never feel anything
but scorn for the rest of my life.

When I was twelve I dreamt I was on top of a hill, perched on top of the stairs of a large hospital. Proof that we ever existed: only the wire stretched between telephone poles, the building behind me, the wind pulling down the wires. I was in a wheelchair, my torso bound in a stump.
My arms and legs had been taken away. I remember my face stinging from the cold, the wheelchair shifting, squeaking beneath me. I wanted it to be a dream, and it wasn't.

I am afraid I shall never see people close up, that I will never touch
them, that they will not be able to touch me.

That no one will ever move me,
free me of pity.
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