Fear
It’s a funny thing, how
This thing called fear keeps me trapped
Away from being me.
I feel sad.
These boxes and walls contain me inside shells of different names and none of them are mine
Yet I crawl inside and make them my home
Instead of soaring free.
I’ve hid
For so long.
Inside bangs and button up shirts and a profession people understand
That sounded good.
Paletteable,
And deserving of respect even.
I hid inside the shadows of anyone who would let me
Friends
Family
Lovers
Until they moved and I was left there feeling exposed.
Maybe they just wanted to see me.
And now it rises up inside of me
This longing
And deep breath that is both life and drowning.
Fear.
To be me.
To write
And let the words spill out on a page afraid they will say I am just trying to fit myself into that box becuase I’m not
Good at that either.
Pretending.
Imposter.
Trying too hard and wanting to be a wannabe instead of the thing I soar on my wings with
And even to be honest
With myself
About what stirs me.
The magic I feel when I hear that, or read that line, or feel that texture between my fingertips -
It’s sinking
deep.
Into the soul of who I am that appears in fragments but
Here, in the burning sun
On red soil I’m sliced open to peer deep inside of me
This sun doesn’t cast the same shadows I typically hide behind
I soar on wings and dive deep
Honest with myself about the magic I feel here
With him, with them
Honestly.
The words flow out like my deep end of emotions that I try to mask so often as a shallow end.
But
When I’m not afraid, and I tell Him
I’ve been scared that He would take it away
Say, goodness
That wasn’t supposed to happen
Or
He would look confused trying to make sense of what to do with me
That my honesty with myself would mean honesty with Him and what if there was no place for me there.
Exposed.
In the Light.
That He would try to shove me back into the box again, as if
It wasn’t good.
Or intentional.
This heart that bursts into yellow and orange and red
And warms at the smallest detail, curling up to bask in His sun, and if He didn’t make that
Or want that
And doesn’t know what to do with it…
Well
Can I trust Him with my deepest longings if He doesn’t know me truly,
Deeply,
Best…
Of all?
I say it, scared.
April 4 2025
Inspired by the book Human
© Naomi Allen, Beautifully Nay
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