I inch forward towards you wondering what lies beneath that exterior, wondering why I keep moving in your direction even though my mind tells me that you’re not the one. I’ve been displaced into 15th century Central America, and I play the part of the Spanish conquistador, and you have become the lush land that lies before me. Had I a conscience, I would retreat, but something draws me closer and closer in.
And I am suddenly pushed back into my reality because I don’t have the audacity to trample upon you, to even lay a finger before I know that it is okay to do so. But even then, I will probably not approach you, even though I desperately want to, to get behind that illustrious expression, to know what goes on inside that head.
To be honest, I am scared of you. I am scared of the scars that you can leave, scared of the scars that I can leave, scared of the disasters that have yet to happen and the times of absolute tranquility and comfort. Most of all, I’m scared that everything that could have happened will eventually be sealed in a little airy bubble that will disintegrate in the wind, and fly away into the abyss. So perhaps I don’t step forward and decide that I will snoop because I am afraid of losing something that I have not even yet obtained, which sounds outlandish in so many ways, but yet is the biggest contributing factor in my hesitance.
I want you, but I’m scared of you.
I want you, but I’m scared of me.
I want you, I want you, so want me first.
I am not the bold conquistador. I want to be the Native, who loves the land like it is her own flesh and blood. I want to be the Native, who appreciates all that the land has given her. I want to be the Native, who wants to give back to the land. I want to be the Native that would never lay a hand, but gently run my fingers through the moss.
But I am scared of you and what power you could have over me. I am scared that the picture book my eyes see will only be photos of you, even when you cease to exist except in my memory. I am scared that everything I knew will become a lie, and that all you showered me with was never really there.
So, hold me, want me, etch me in your memory. Tell me that your mind says that I am the one. Do it because I cannot.
