My mother taught me how to fold fear
like linens,
stack it neatly in drawers,
press it flat until it forgets its own shape.
I learned to wear it under my clothes,
a second skin, stitched tight,
the seams invisible.
Her hands were never still.
They flew through rooms,
dusting away ghosts,
shaking the dead leaves from the curtains.
She was always looking for something
to save,
or something to bury.
I’ve inherited that habit—
this restless reaching,
this knowing that the sky could fall
at any moment.
I keep my hands busy
to keep the fear from slipping
through the cracks.
Sometimes, when the wind howls,
I hear her voice in it,
whispering all the things
we were too afraid to name.
And I fold it up neatly,
press it flat,
hide it in the back of a drawer
where it cannot touch me.
where I'm safe
where I'm safe.
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Author:
seori (
Offline) - Published: May 10th, 2025 19:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
What a great metaphor for dealing with fear. Most lovely
A lovely write of the way of dealing with fear but also traits we can inherit but not always know we have, enjoyed the read
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