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.

I’m angry.

Angry.

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.