Napkins

“I know where you live.”
That’s what he said to me.
As if I would cower.

Ok… I cowered.
I took a few minutes to catch my own breath.
To soak my tears up with spare napkins I had in my desk drawer.
I was scared.
I still am.

He knows where I live.

But…

He doesn’t know that I am twisted.
That my intrusive thoughts are straight out of a horror movie that is too graphic for trailers and too violent for theaters.
He doesn’t know that I am angry. Like, really fucking angry.

Anger that makes me smile.
Anger that hangs there, out in the open like a punching bag waiting to be hit.

This man said the wrong thing.

Not because I have an ego
And it’s not because I come with threats and scary words.

It’s because my rage is vengeful and long lasting.
It’s the type of rage that makes me want to have a story to tell.

And now?
Now I’m aware.
Now my ducks are in a row. A stationary one. A solid one. One that is watching.
He doesn’t know that I have endured pain before.
Pain that is unmatched.
Pain that I crawled out of.

How quickly my fear turns to hunger.

I am writing this.
I’m publishing it.
and I am hitting Enter.

I am inviting him to Enter.
Because this will end.
He made a mistake.

And now, he needs to get his
fucking
napkins
ready