Me and fear were always close.
When I was five, I was scared of dolls—
The way they looked at me with soulless eyes.
At seven years old, I was so scared of the dark.
The unknowing of what could grab me.
At ten, it was school. The stress of being watched
and trying to be a great student had me shaking.
At thirteen, it was my parents. I wanted to be everything
they wanted me to be— To be good. To be great
No… to be amazing.
At fifteen, it was people telling me I have to be cool.
I have to act like this. I have to dress like this.
Don’t be weird.
Don’t look ghetto.
Don’t look mean.
Don’t be too black.
Don’t give the police a reason.
At sixteen, it was mirrors. I didn’t know why,
but something about them looked weird to me.
And now at seventeen, I found out why
I didn’t like mirrors—I saw me.
The one thing I couldn’t run from.