it is not the dark that terrifies me,
but the shadow it casts, stretching endlessly forward.
fear is not the thunder but the waiting for the strike,
the ache of a sky too heavy to hold its silence.
it is not the monster at the door—
it is the sound of the latch shifting,
the soft creak of wood that makes me freeze,
makes me pray to remain unseen.

fear is a seed that blooms in my chest,
its roots winding deep, choking out air and light.
it whispers to me as it grows:
*don’t speak too loud, don’t take too much,
don’t reach for anything that might slip away.*
and so i shrink myself smaller and smaller,
until i am only a shadow of what i was,
and even the shadow trembles.

i tell myself fear is a shield,
but it has no weight in my hands.
it cannot stop the blows,
only tell me when they are coming,
only make me flinch before they land.
it cannot save me—
it can only show me what it will feel like to fall.

i am afraid of fear because it does not leave.
it lingers in the quiet,
in the spaces between laughter,
in the moments before sleep,
when the world grows soft and still.
fear leans in then, tender as a lover,
its breath cold against my neck,
its voice warm with knowing.
*you are not enough,* it says.
*you will never be enough.*

and i believe it.
how can i not?
it knows me so well,
knows the fault lines beneath my surface,
the places where i’ve already broken.
it shows me every crack,
and then asks why i thought i could hold myself together.

fear is a thief that takes without warning.
it steals my courage in the moment i need it most,
turns my voice into an echo too faint to hear.
it makes me question the ground beneath my feet,
makes me doubt the air in my lungs.
it tells me, *this is safety,*
as it pulls me deeper into its arms,
but the safety feels like drowning,
like being wrapped in a net of my own making.

it is not the danger that destroys me,
but the waiting,
the endless waiting.
i live in the pause before the knife falls,
in the breath held too long,
in the stretch of silence that feels like forever.
fear makes me a prisoner of moments that haven’t come,
makes me rehearse tragedies that may never be.
and yet i rehearse them still,
as if preparing could soften the blow.

fear has made a home in me,
a nest of sharp edges and broken glass.
it caws like crows in the hollows of my ribs,
picking at the remains of the person i was.
i try to shoo it away, but it only circles back,
its wings heavy with the weight of my shame.

i fear fear because it feeds on love.
it whispers when i care too much,
shows me all the ways i could lose what i hold.
it plants questions where trust should grow,
turns warmth into worry,
turns joy into something too fragile to touch.
i watch my hands tremble,
afraid to hold anything at all,
because fear tells me it will slip through my fingers,
and maybe it’s right.

fear is a mirror i cannot look away from.
it shows me every failure,
every time i was too much,
every time i was not enough.
it reminds me of the nights i’ve spent alone,
of the hands i’ve reached for that never reached back,
of the moments i thought i was safe,
only to find the ground vanish beneath me.

i fear fear because it feels like all i have left.
it has wrapped itself around me,
its voice my constant companion.
when i cry, it whispers, *you deserve this.*
when i fall, it says, *i told you so.*
when i reach for hope, it pulls me back,
reminds me of every time hope has failed me.

and yet i cling to it,
because fear is all i know.
it is the shape of my days,
the rhythm of my nights.
it is the weight that keeps me grounded,
the anchor that holds me still.
but anchors do not save;
they only drown.

what would i be without fear?
would i finally breathe,
or would the emptiness consume me?
is it better to live in the shadow of fear,
or to risk the light and find there is nothing there?

i do not know.
and so i stay,
in this cage of my own making,
with fear as my jailer,
and fear as my only friend.
it hums its lullaby, soft and cruel,
and i let it carry me into another night.