Instructions from the Smoke Alarm

Fear moved in early,
a tenant with no luggage,
tapping the walls for weakness.

It learned my name
before I did.

It spoke in slogans—
Don’t. Not enough. Not safe.
Soft sibilants,
sliding sense into static,
turning maybes into mandates.

I mistook it for caution.
That was the irony.

Fear hung signs inside my chest:
Exit Only.
Pulled the fire alarm
at the scent of warmth.

Every thought became a spark.
Every feeling, a forecast—
storms rehearsed in advance,
thunder arriving before the cloud.

My body obeyed the voice,
flooded the house,
shook the windows,
rang the nervous system raw
like a bell with no hands.

Breath shortened.
Muscles memorized collapse.
The heart beat warnings, not rhythm.

Fear said, This is you.
It called panic personality,
called vigilance virtue,
called drowning staying alive.

The conceit held:
If I stayed afraid enough,
nothing bad could happen.

Foreshadowing lived in every flinch—
the way calm felt counterfeit,
the way silence sounded like betrayal.

Only later did I notice
the smoke was thought,
the fire a sentence I kept repeating.

Even now,
when the room is quiet,
the alarm still screams—

not because there is danger,
but because fear was never trained
to recognize peace.