The Fear That Frees Me

When I was four, I thought monsters hid under my bed
because I felt a presence stain my nightmares so
I wove a dreamcatcher out of yarn, beads and bravery
and I hung it from my windowpane.

When I was six, I was scared to shed my training wheels
because I felt unsteady alone so 
I cocooned myself in layers of padding and
my fear turned into wings
like the caterpillars that learned they could be 
lionhearted butterflies in my kindergarten classroom. 

When I was eight, I thought rainstorms would kill me so 
I pretended that the pitter-patter was a melody and
thunder was my chorus. I fell asleep to
her lullabies cemented in my mind, and I woke to rainbows. 

When I was ten, I fell in a race and I was afraid
of last place. I picked myself up and ran faster;
I didn't notice the blood trickling off my shredded skin.
My scrapes and scars were the medals I wore proudly 
because I believed I had vanquished fear.

I am the four year old who lies awake, wide-eyed,
and I am the ten year old who pursues the finish line.
I am curated from the fabrics that make up
manic sock puppets and ugly graduation dresses 
and everything terrible in between, each thread
stitched to remind me of a cold, unflinching terror
that never disappeared as I thought it would,
even in adolescence.

My heart never ceased racing as I grew older;
it accelerates with every touch of panic and uncertainty,
like an airplane that dips towards the ground, faster and faster
in engine failure, pulled by the lull of gravity. I am afraid, 
but my fear is my shadow so when I turn to the light
it falls behind me.
 

JasmineGreenTea

15 years old

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