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La Tarántula
To be lovely is to remind oneself,
incessantly,
about the qualities of kindness and
self-care.
Although Machiavelli had told me
that ‘twas better to be feared than loved,
I don’t see how one can’t be both.
To be feared is to be daring, realizing
one’s qualities of
ambition—
siphoning
one’s energy
down the drain.
Please, please, please,
think of me as a cloud, thundering
on my off-days, blessing one’s
life with a crossbow of colors
during my ascent.
Loved. Had it better been fear that
I would have loved to exude, darkened
in the final moments of life, seeing my
best friend dead at the ransom of
life. Love, underneath a tarp of hideousness,
lies one’s love, though outsiders may
never know me as Skywalker, rather
Darth Vader as Bain as Hela; by Frankenstein’s
few words with Walton, I am fueled by
revenge on those who had yet to reason
with my love, tamper with my ambition.
Burn me at the Stake. Make me someone
who you’ll know for years to come. Love me.
Fear me. See me as a Godfather to your
mob, bring me the scripture of Ecclesiastes.
Mark me as no object of mankind, slay me
as no Child of the Universe, reckon me with no
care.
I am the tarantula. Hated by most. Loved by few.
Is it better to be loved or feared? Humorous as it is, an insect no larger than the width of one’s shoes, the tarantula, inspires such great dividends of fear in humans.
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