Something Like Fear

I feel something growing,
tangling itself in my stomach.
When I look down at my naked body,
I don’t see any ugly
in fact
I see a desirable figure,
politicized to the nerve.
What is growing from media articles
and crime rates
and harsh words that always cut,
is not the same form that the
Post-traumatic-stress-disorder
took when it claimed my system,
though it unsettles my fingertips and
realigns my neck in a way that I know only to be fear,
and I’m realizing this fear may be rational.
I’d gotten up from bed to clothe myself.
Not just because I’ve learned to find discomfort in the
unfiltered body,
but because I am under the suspicion that even in my home
I am vulnerable to being witnessed.
Even when – especially when
your home is built within yourself,
this home can be burglarized.

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