You Were So Heavy
You were so heavy.
You weighed me down
like a paper press.
A mighty boulder
on my chest.
You compressed parts of me,
like a discarded draft paper
you mash in your hands
and throw in the recycling can.
Crumpled, I forgot what shape I had at the start.
You pushed me down so much
that I feel like I disappeared,
and lost who I was.
My essence transposed by an imposter
with no career.
You gave me no space.
I wasn’t asking for the world on a silver plate.
You took, and took
Asked me to be all your support
systems. Roles I took on dutifully.
Took for granted the parts I was giving, for free.
Now – ironically-
You try to lift me, hold my hand to stand,
which is all I ever wanted.
Telling me I’m grand,
but where was that when I was dusting the pan?
So, I’m not sad anymore.
You’re more like your dad than you think.
I’ll be sure to never miss an opportunity
to express how I feel or what I think.
Because the biggest regret
would be to realize it’s all too late.
I shift my attention to everything I’ve wanted to be.
All the dreams you didn’t give me space to see.
A world that makes me smile and consider the kindness that can be found
amidst my existential questionings.
I’ll live with those, because that’s what keeps on giving to me.