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.