Madison Xu
I’m afraid
of the beetle that
f
a
l
l
s
from the windowsill
writhing spindly legs
on its broken back
on hardwood floors.
I’m afraid
of responsibilities and
EXPECTATIONS
and college
and overdue taxes
that grow on kitchen counters.
I’m afraid
of porcelain dolls
with lace sleeves
and glassy eyes
and lips that smile red.
I’m afraid
of losing feeling
first in my fingertips,
and then,
my palms,
but
mostly
emotionally.
I’m afraid
of the bundle of clothes on my chair
that looks like a man
as I lay swaddled in covers
drawn up to my nose
late at night.
I’m afraid
of little holes,
lotus seeds.
I’m afraid
of the bursting oil
on the pan that scalds
my skin.
I’m afraid
of uncertainty
and nothing
being the meaning
of everything.
I’m afraid
of confrontation,
fake friends,
becoming too close,
b etrayal.
I’m afraid
of swallowing fish bones that hide
in fleshy white meat
and scratch my throat,
the same feeling I get sometimes,
when I volunteer to speak.
I’m afraid of people
that don’t listen to the word
“no” “no”.
I’m afraid
of not liking what I see in the mirror
and wanting nothing more
than to be someone else.
I’m afraid
of graphite pencils
breaking paper skin.
I’m afraid
of children with snotty noses
and chocolate cheeks
and fidgeting fingers.
I’m afraid
of a bouncy rubber ball
hitting me in the eye.
I’m afraid
of white men in ill fitting suits
that argue and debate on TV,
but a little more so,
the white men that nod as they watch them.
I’m afraid
of the encroaching darkness that closes in
once in a while,
when my brain tells me to forget
how to
breathe
and I lean over the bedpost
heaving,
eyes closed,
heaving.
I’m afraid
of writing this poem,
what the words might sound aloud,
mean to other people.
I’m afraid
of being lonely,
invisible,
meaning nothing more
than a speck of dust
that dared once to breathe the air of the Earth
and walk on two feet.
I’m afraid
of something
I’m afraid to admit.
Sometimes,
I’m afraid of myself.