Fears Poem by Sylvia Maximova

I'd rather you didn't
reach out a hand
to touch me.
I am afraid -

that the galaxies I create
so diligently, so zealously
each morning while I
have breakfast
comb my hair
flick through the paper -

all these vast new worlds
of dead stars and hostile suns
crawling out my mind
so slowly, so steadily
to fill up the space
between you and I

will suddenly shrink
to an insignificant speck
and you'll travel through them
in less than a second
by laying a hand -
your only spaceship
gently, on mine.

These galaxies are begot
each evening while you
eat dinner
turn on the TV
turn out the lights -

and you never seem to notice
how in secret in the dark
under the covers
I give birth to,
I become the mother of emptiness.

My only child it is,
and me a single parent,
attending to its growth
so gingerly, so lovingly
for the wider it spreads
the safer I feel -

cuddled up forever
in its vacant eyes
where no one
not even you
(or especially you?)
can reach out their hand
to touch me.
To hurt me.