i am so afraid
of living
my own life,
even though
that life
is safe
quiet
and dull.
i’m sure
that for
some people,
my life
would be a
welcome respite
from their own
life of
poverty or
pain or
threat.
i have it easy,
and yet somehow,
i fear
this life
of mine.
or perhaps
i fear
the reality
of being myself
whatever the nature
of my life.
fear isn’t
a reality;
it’s only
a suggestion.
a possibility.
an idea
of how
to die
while still
alive.
it’s also
a hint
of how
to live,
a hint
that taunts,
i dare you.