when they publish a list of all the ways they want to undo you

It used to be spiders, rooms without light, bridges that buried bodies beneath them. The fear grew on me like a December sweater, steel wool threads itching shoulders. Now, men--who presume they are powerful. Now, laws--pieces of paper that try to undo me. Now, money--I'm afraid I will never have enough and I worry what it makes others capable of. I guess          I have always been the one in charge of trying to remove myself; my fear, now, is that others are trying, too.