I’m afraid of being afraid, afraid of not experiencing, afraid of not being as active as I am mouthy. I’m afraid of the no in my throat before my mouth makes it.

Two days in a row, I paid strangers to touch my feet, back, neck, hands, just to impersonate how loose and limber my joints felt after treading sand, walking water.

I fear what it means to look tired, to die in my worst pair of panties, to be found unfabulous, to be caught off guard.

I like to say things like “I miss missing you” or “I think about you everyday,” but I’m scared to mean it, to really mean it, and feel empty.

You don’t understand, I fear what bug might burrow its way into my skin, the needle I might step on that kills me, whether slowly or quick.

I’ve measured my fear intimately, rarely out loud. Maybe I’m bad luck, maybe the evil eye follows me, or maybe I’m leading a blessed and burning existence where I fear and then I push.

About Carson Jordan

About Carson

Carson Jordan grew up in Ithaca, NY and attended Wells College, receiving her undergraduate degree in Creative Writing, focusing in poetry, women and gender studies, and Creative Non Fiction in 2016. She currently resides in Brooklyn, where she’s working towards receiving her MFA in Non Fiction at The New School. In her free time she enjoys collecting race-car memorabilia, hanging out with her cat Gus, and occasionally dabbling in glitter and tequila.

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