Fear, Her Self

Some days my fear grows legs and walks. Yes, she’s mine. I keep her in my bra, warm and damp in Summer. Sometimes she’s too big. She claws and squeezes my throat as she climbs out. Her wagging tail batters my heart like a djembe, quick rhythmic beats. She has dragons’ wings I think, because she is hot tempered and sometimes she makes me want to fly. Other times, she stares me down with clenched fists and a heroes stance.

Right now, fear paces the hard wood floor of my living room. She sweats. She’s breathing heavy like an animal. She paces through the thick jungle of clothes and toys, kicking up clouds of dust. She judges me. I see her side eyeing me everywhere.

Thinking my box of words could calm me, I open it and “death” falls out. I feel fear’s breath on my neck. She tells me to flee, but the exit sign blinks “red alert” and a raven shaped adhesive flies above the door.

Fear’s got jokes.

A blue-eyed broadcaster recounts a scientists’ prediction: 1 million dead by November.

Some have been praying 2050 will look far different than they thought it would, so they say, “It is what it is.”

Fear echoes the news. “1 million dead by November,” she smirks. “It won’t take that long.”

I believe her.