my mom taught me that
"cautious will keep you alive".

I learned that cautious is a shield
from the potential of pain;
but she never told me how it could be a barrier.
I never realized that confined safety prevented expansion,
limiting my existence to all things familiar.
sometimes I stare at my legs -
the only scars marking its surface are the ones I've made myself,
because I'd rather be hurt by something I've known forever,
than by the unfamiliar rough ground of a playground floor.

cautious will keep you breathing,
but it will not keep you alive.