I fear the finality
Of everything.
So nothing
Ever begins.

Fear of them, I fear them,
No not men, just the idea of them,
Actually no, the idea I quite like;
It’s the non-real reality that scares me,
Terrorises me just a little if I stop to think.
No it’s not men, it’s just people.
Maybe it’s all just my social anxiety,
Talking to me again in a slightly different way,
I mean, I know anxiety can change but it doesn’t, not for me:
I know me,
I just don’t know what I’m scared of really.

I can’t believe I dare to write this,
Go away Chloe, just shut yourself up inside again,
Then you won’t have to think about anyone.
Well that’s a lie, I think about people all of the time;
The people I could have, the people I won’t, people I wish existed but I sadly know never will
(I convince myself they will anyway),
And when they’re not real, I’m not afraid -
Because I’m not afraid,
I started this all up as a game.
Did someone ever tell you, you should never read lists of phobias you know you don’t have?
Well I’m telling you, don’t. You might get some.

But do you ever daydream of your perfect soul mate?
Because then I think of guys, like: real guys that actually do exist
And then I’m just like no, no I’ll stay away,
Not today, not tomorrow, I’m not ready.
Then I realise I’ll never be ready.
I’ve noted the slow progression of “could you really be scared of that Chloe? Sounds pretty stupid.”
So I’m like no, no I can’t be,
And then I get these little feelings sometimes,
Which makes me kind of go, “really are you?”
But I’m not because:
That wouldn’t make sense
And
People who know nothing on the internet say that’s sexist without knowing what they mean.
If someone actually had a phobia of the opposite *** or gender it wouldn’t be their fault, because it’s a ****** phobia.

I don’t have phobias though, not one.
Maybe social anxiety, maybe another one, maybe I’m getting one more,
But really I must just be exaggerating.
I know it’s not a phobia - that’s not what I’m claiming,
But when I imagine having a reality where...
Well it just kind of scares me.

They're everywhere
On the street, on the walls, in my house.
Crawling everywhere, on everything
In my room, on my bed, all over me.
Up my arms, through my toes, in my hair
Taking over my mind, over my senses
Covering me, suffocating me, killing me.

Warm sauce
as hot as my blood
splattered all over the floor.

Spit out,
puked up,
you slammed my head on the floor.

Mop up or eat it.
You used my mopped head to clean it.

Ever since then, I couldn't eat spaghetti again.

As the crowd moves around me
I cower
and make myself
as small as I can
My eyes burn
and my chest hurts
"don't hurt me"
I think
as I cry so hard
my throat refuses
to let me form sentences
people ask what's wrong
but I can't answer them
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
Is all they can make out
and all I can make escape my lips
I'm sorry I'm scared, but I don't know what to do
Please forgive me
and don't hate me
for the fears
I can't control

When thinking of fears or phobias you might think...drowning...the dark...driving...etc. But, some peoples phobias are different; as they are fearing true love or medications. As mine is oblivion, the meaning is I want to carry a legacy as nobody really knows the REAL definition. Some people want money, fame, girls/boys, the world as for me... I just want somebody to know my name, or to hear my stories or as to love me for me. Well, the truth about this is anyone can reach oblivion so why is it my phobia? Well, I know I'm nothing to be dwelled on or cried on. Well, maybe someone will but, will my friends stay with me until the end? WHO KNOWS but I want to be known as someone who helped others to be known; then to be known myself. So I guess I don't want to be known or to be seen but one thing I do want is TRUE LOVE. So, whats your fear? Well, mine is oblivion as for I don't want to be known. Do you want to be above oblivion? Because I don't it's selfish and so known.

My sister howled with the dogs at the end of the street
her teeth looking more canine than theirs with her jaw-hinged open and her gums shining
as she became every house in our neighborhood
fingers woven into a chain link fence around her ankle
as if to create a barrier between the throbbing and the cool stroke of the air.
I couldn’t decide if her ankle looked broken-hearted or dumb,
slumped over like it was on a bus, snoring and dreaming of the stop it had just missed.
The sky slowed down to melt into navy and rosy tie-dye at the same rate as her ankle, although her face got there first
and I swore I heard the sidewalk crack lightening into her bone as soon as she landed,
I brought it up every time someone knocked on the door or dropped a dish until she wasn’t there to bring it up anymore,
but her hands always kept steady when she said she never heard a thing.

In the car ride to the hospital my skull trembled at the high frequency of my sisters screaming.
I crossed my fingers that she would stop, but not too tightly
remembering that ripe carrot snapping into two sound
acutely aware that I had never felt my own bones living in my body until now
how every pothole made them tingle and catch fire
and I sat ghost-still until we got home.    

I am a spread of limp appendages on a cold metal table when I get my first piercing.
I imagined that I looked a lot like my sister when her ankle fell apart
or each time she made sure to draw out her goodbyes as our mother fell apart.
The piercer clamped down on my belly button with an instrument that looked like something you would use to snap stubborn lobster legs
my belly button dangerously residing only a few skin creases away from my rib cage
skin seeming too thin to protect bone when in the process of perspiring,
like paper that has soaked for days.
I hoped that rock won against paper in an alternate universe.
Breathe in he said, like my sister couldn’t that day,
breathe out and it was over and I was closer to understanding what it felt like to have a bone double over
but I knew this wasn’t it
it wasn’t even close.

When my sister died
I tried pulling back my pinky until it collapsed in exhaustion from fighting back,
but I couldn’t finish it off, couldn’t put it out of its misery.
I wanted to know if death or a bone breaking hurt more.
Sometimes my body flushes with the thick shade of shame at the thought
that a shattered pinky could hurt more than the empty spaces,
that I would trade my sister’s dead body for the safety of my own,
that if I hide from broken bones in the soft confines of cushy couches and toddler heights,
then what does broken feel like when it defines more than limbs.