Fear stalks me when I run along my favorite trail.
It walks by, tipping its hat and offering a sinister smile around mile 3–
the double-fenced part where there is literally no escape other than up and out.

My stride quickens once it disappears from my peripheral vision;
I can hear it change course, following me,
its footsteps stomping as it catches up to me

My fastest miles can’t escape its grip.
It reaches for me,
fingertips slipping along my sweat-streaked ponytail,
laughing while I try to shift my gait to an all-out sprint.

Its palm pulling me by one shoulder,
then the next;
All I can do is pray for the mile marker to change

But when I think I’m out of breath,
when my lungs are ready to give out,
when the fire burns in my chest from the extended effort

The fear drops pace,
hides itself along the forest’s edge
and I turn to face it,
but it’s gone.

A young mom with a jogging stroller sends a smile;
it’s obvious,
fear has not caught up to her

yet. 

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