Atychiphobia

"I'm afraid of failure,"
you confessed to me
through crackling static on the phone.
It rolled off your tongue
like a simple afterthought.

Though that was years ago,
I've never forgotten it;
it's echoed in
things you've said
and haven't said,
things you've done
and haven't done.

When push came to shove
and you fell down,
I offered a hand
to help you to your feet,
but you declined;
so I lay down next to you instead,
but you asked me to leave.
I did,
though not without reluctance.

For a year, I wept.
Sometimes, I still do.

For a year,
I've wandered obscure paths
in search of myself.
Somehow, they've led me back to you.

You've gone from lying down
to sitting up,
from looking in
to looking out,
but you still haven't moved.

Tough love, kid;
I want to pick you up
and throw you in the water
just to prove to you that you can swim.

But alas, a year has
tied my hands behind my back;
I dare not interfere
with an injured chrysalis,
lest I cause further damage
to the butterfly within
who is struggling to transform.

Still, I want to scream,
to shake you.
Pick up your mat and walk!
Or are you going to die alone here,
crippled by your own fear?
Why do you only see what's wrong
when I see so many things about you
that are right?

I don't think you're just afraid of failure;
I think you're also afraid to succeed.