They say life is about risks and I think I am finally beginning to understand and comprehend what they meant. My risks that I would take are not considered abnormal or even to be risks at all.

But falling asleep at 4pm not knowing when I will wake, is a risk to me.
Deciding whether to reach over and hold your hand or not, is a risk to me.
The decision on whether I should go to lessons or stay home, is a risk to me.

These aren’t the risks sometimes dares you to do in a ploy of childish antics.
These aren’t the risks your mother told you about when you were sixteen.
These aren’t the risks your health teachers handed out pamphlets about in their free time.

No.
They are far more personal, intimate.

I question myself frequently about these risks. Should I take them or shall I venture back inside my skin, allowing my bones to be the gates. Locked from the outer world where feelings aren’t shared and rumors are spread. Where a glance can mean so much more then wandering eyes. When children become monsters and things they swore they would never evolve too.

I won’t take these risks because I am afraid.
Afraid of all the possibilities.