I Am a Hunter, WriteDenver

I am always vigilant. When I enter a room I make sure I can see the door and, if possible, know of another way out.  I scan faces, read bodies.  I have radar for anger, for need, for fear.

I am a child, but no longer childish.

I am a hunter of invisible weapons. Weapons held on the inside where they cannot be easily seen. Hidden in thoughts, and desires, and perversions. Yes, I know what a perversion is. I can see them, poking out of a breast pocket or a pocketbook, shiny and sharp.

I hunt these weapons, not to steal them, but to escape them. Evil intentions lurk in every quiet moment like snipers peeking over the rooftop wall. I cannot disarm everyone, and I’m not yet strong enough to fight back. 

I must be alert, cunning but not obvious, charming, at ease—and childlike.