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.
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.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.