The Fear Lies Sharper Than the Blade

The uneasy hum begins long before the crash,  

a rustling in the corners of the mind.  

What ifs grow roots, vines curling inward,  

cradling my breath, squeezing too tight.  

Every creek of the floor feels sinister,  

every missed phone call a silent volcano.  

I build catastrophes with trembling hands,  

paint them vivid, let them loom enormous.  

But then the storm arrives, rain on windows  

like a thousand quiet apologies: we're gentler  

than you imagined. Even the thunder says,  

I’ve never been a monster, only loud.  

And I think of all my worries, my runaway  

trains that never derailed, just slowed,  

how my chest keeps forgetting to trust  

this: the fear lies sharper than the blade.  

The darkened corners hold no beasts,  

just dust and echoes that mean no harm.  

I light a candle, warm in my grip,  

its glow whispering, look—we were only shadows.