Some haunting-story strokes my arm

And begs so softly, “name me, mother,”

I pull my flesh from dissonant harm

And beat the tale back to be told by another.

Tensed up

At night, alone, the fear sneaks in

The worry and defense creep up my sleeves

They corner every vein and artery,

Demanding my breath and my sanity.

I will not give in, I will not give up

Love is not wrong, or evil

It floods

Love renews and restores and heals

Love is the warrior facing this fear.