Dear Eyeball,
There’s a man I should fear, and I think that’s why my body leans toward him like a plant toward a blue flame.
He never announces himself.
He just appears —
at the foot of my stairs,
in the shadow of the corridor,
sometimes standing so still I walk past him before I realise he’s there.
He looks at me like he’s reading a crime scene.
Like he knows exactly which part of me will give way first.
When he enters my apartment, he doesn’t touch anything.
He just walks slowly around the room, hands behind his back, noticing the tiny humiliations of my life —
the glass by the bed,
the book left open face-down,
the cardigan I pretend I don’t sleep with when I’m lonely.
He doesn’t touch me either.
He doesn’t need to.
The danger is that I want him to.
Sometimes he stands so close behind me I feel the heat of him along my spine, and I swear the room tilts.
My breath changes.
My knees forget how to behave.
I feel like a door he could open with one fingertip.
He always leaves before anything happens.
Before I can ask.
Before I can beg.
And the worst part, Eyeball?
The shameful, thrilling, sick part?
I want him to decide for me.
I want him to choose the moment I lose the very thing I’m pretending to protect.
The good men make me feel untouched.
He makes me feel like a confession about to be dragged into the light.
Why am I giving this man the power to ruin me?
Why does the part of me that knows better keep stepping closer?
What kind of person wants the wolf to knock twice?
Liora, 32 Manchester, UK
