What do we say about this fear?

Fear wears me as if I am his vest,
makes sure to tighten the straps around my waist

pulls me so close that I cannot breath
how can I explain when I have no oxygen

in my forced lungs? I ask
fear is what we do not know,

like long alleys of new cities
imagined lined with nothing but needles and strangers

like losing your way in broad daylight
by slipping suddenly into a mine-field

like where I live where fear makes up
most rooms but is covered by nice Persian tapestry

spaces we pretend not to see, an old photo in a drawer
to forget doesn't mean to forgive

this fear, mine,
that fear yours,

of slipping and never getting up
of losing a love you never had but still

was brave enough to lean on its belly
like a crutch, or a new fear of rings

locking up, the faces, the dates,
the times of our lives

What do we say about this fear?
other than it's strong, like a vest
with a broken zipper, you cannot
take off, no matter how hard you try.