“Hi Fee, how are you?”

I want to tell you that I’m scared.

I’m scared of the pen sized needles that will be inserted into my super artery three times a week.  I’m scared of my arms not healing and weeping sores the size of button holes.  I’m scared of pain.  I’m scared of sitting amongst sickness.  I’m scared the stench of sickness will seep deep into my pores and hide away from the scent of flowers or scrubbing of soap.

I’m scared of the streets I walk.  I’m scared of what lurks in the dark corners.  I’m scared of the possibility of evil up every lane way and the cost of a chase.  I’m scared that the comfort in familiarity and the safety in daylight no longer exists.  I’m scared that my trust has been replaced with a can promising a spray of one thousand peppers.

I want to tell you I’m scared of what’s inside me and what’s around me.  I want to tell you that I’m scared of who I’ll become.

“I’m good thanks.   How are you?”