This marrow-deep desire,
so wretched it turns to fear.
I believe them, that fear is rooted in want.
I want this.
I want this so much I tremble, afraid I might never get it;
afraid I might.
What I get: wanting something enough to fear it, a moving forward to paralysis from yet another fear that if you move one single inch towards it, it might run.
You know you won’t run;
I won’t run.
But it might.
And so you sit there, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for it to come to you. But honey, given enough time, anything’ll run.
Mary's One Hundred 