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.