I Fold My Fears Like Laundry

I sort the thunder from the sighs and the reds from bleeding blues.

The mornings that unraveled me from nights that stuck like glue.

Each dread becomes a wrinkled shirt I lay across the bed.

And smooth with open, patient palms the creases in my head.

~~

The smallest ones—like lost receipts—go first, a simple stack;

I pair the socks of “what if nots,” match heel to hopeful track.

The heavier ones—hoodies, thick—still smell of rain and doubt;

I fold them once, then once again, to keep the chill shut out.

~~

Some terrors are a tangled sheet I wrestle just to tame.

A fitted corner caught on grief that never learned my name.

I tuck the stubborn edges in, make room for breath to lie,

and learn that even haunted cloth grows quiet if it’s dry.

~~

I press apologies like seams and buttons, gentler speech,

mend elbows torn by overreach, and hems of “out of reach.”

I stitch a pocket in my coat for laughter I misplace.

So on the coldest errand-run, I’ll find a warmer face.

~~

You ask me if I’m brave tonight. I point toward the chair—

A mountain of collapsing thoughts is now sorted by my care.

I’m not the blaze that beats the storm or sails a reckless sea.

I’m just a soul who learned to fold the mess that lives in me.

~~

I stack the stacks inside a drawer that closes without a groan.

Leave out one soft and steady shirt to wear when I’m alone.

And when the washing starts again—as living guarantees—

I’ll measure kindness by the load and not the stain degrees.

~~

So if you find me humming low beside the dryer’s glow,

It isn’t that I’ve beaten fear but learned the gentler show:

to lift each garment by its name, to smooth, to sort, to see—

and put away what doesn’t fit the person I can be.