Fear affects me much like flame affects paper. At the edges, charring, blackening corners until they flake off. A sheet can stay a rectangle with rounded edges—a book can stay legible with its margins singed.

Take a lighter to the centre, however, and the instrument of emotion will be crippled. Bent over in the middle, curling in on itself at the first sign of smoke as if belief alone could quell what is already beginning to rage. It will crumple and bend like a girl being ravaged by her own body—like a boy experiencing insurmountable grief—like a child having its dignity ripped from it. It is a flame so bright that feeds on a thin thing so dull, so soft and brittle, that one may struggle to believe the kind of destruction it can harbor.

fear affects me as much as heat affects sand. Once so strong, so resilient, melted, made into glass, into something transparent, something easily broken, something fragile.

Under the heat, under the fear, I shattered, became someone who pushes people away. Yes, I am hard and strong, but one small push, that's all I need to break down. I'm transparent, emotions out in the open, I keep trying to hide it with more glass, but I keep shattering, and the extra glass is just going to hurt me, my family, and my friends more.