It began in my body.
My brain, free of a fear filter, couldn’t contain it.
Maybe because it came at me like an endless stream of gamma radiation,
I built myself a protective lead suit
that looked like anger.
When fear came at me, I blasted it back outwards.
the I that observes, the scientist I,
moved up and to the right,
perched in a non-body place,
staring safely down at a meat shield taking hits to the chest.
I was in a car crash that killed three people.
More, depending on how you measure death.
A passenger: a passive participant in an apocalypse.
My head cracked open and the old me –
the one that only lived to 17 –
poured out along with the blood.
The new me, a corpse existing in a body made of terror.
My anger and rage an all-consuming flash fire lighting my way.
In my 30th year came therapy
and a pill
that forced me –
the I, my shadow –
from the safety of above and to the right
back into my body.
But I never made it passed my head.
Now my body holds my world’s fear
and all the rage
of my human existence.
I stay in my protective shell –
emerging only long enough
to shield my heart.
Except, of course, when I’m writing.
Then I’m naked and free and look upon the page with my Medusa stare,
daring it to turn to cinders.
But it never does.
The page always contains me.