Fear Shows Up
Fear doesn’t text or knock.
He just shows up.
Slides in when the lights go out
and the world finally stops pretending
it’s louder than your thoughts.
He reaches for your sleep first,
steals it like you owe him,
like you signed some contract
you don’t remember writing.
Then he grabs your heartbeat,
cranks it up as hard as can be,
past comfortable,
past anything you asked for.
And in the dark,
his favorite place,
he parades out every mistake
you’ve ever made,
lays them out like trophies,
like he’s proud to remind you
of every wrong turn
you've ever made.
He lies about you.
He whispers old insults
like they’re fresh wounds,
like they still belong to you.
He paints disasters
in full color,
one after another,
each one worse than the last,
like he’s painting a portrait
of “worst-case scenario.”
He never mentions the good.
Not once.
Cuts you no slack,
no credit,
no mercy.
Just circles you
with that sharp, night‑owl scream
only you can hear.
And he latches on,
like a leech on the heart
holding on tight
until dawn finally shows up
and he has to run.
But don’t be fooled.
He’s not gone.
He’s just waiting,
resting,
getting ready
to try again tomorrow.
