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.


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.