Fear of reality

I fear things,

many things, in fact.

I fear fear itself.

I fear the deadline of the English paper,

the English paper which I have yet to start working on …

I fear my mum.

I fear my mum’s indication of displeasure

drawn all over her eyebrows as I hand her my report card,

fingers trembling.

I fear my mum’s dictates of what I must and must not do,

what I must and must not say,

what I must and must not sing.

My voice dies as hers grows stronger and stronger,

feeding on my tears and fears and distress.

I fear reality.

I fear the Fact that I am a disappointment,

a disgrace,

a waste of all those precious resources that have been put into nurturing me.

I fear the provability of that Fact.

I fear through my days,

and my nights.

I don’t stop and I can’t stop fearing,

while fear drapes herself all over me as though we’re lovers.

“I’m not interested,” I told her.

She did not hear,

or maybe She did not care.

Same difference.

So I shut the world away,

hoping She would vanish along with it.

But as I rocked myself to sleep,

She came back, bigger and badder than ever before.

She came back, 

to remind me of that deadline once more.