You Were So Heavy

You were so heavy.

You weighed me down

like a paper press.

A mighty boulder

on my chest.

 

You were so heavy.

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 were so heavy.

You pushed me down so much

it was like I disappeared.

Left with an essence transposed by an imposter

unable to interfere.

 

You were so heavy.

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.

 

You’re more like your dad than you think.

I’m not afraid of the clock turning to midnight.

Won’t turn into a pumpkin.

I don’t wear glass shoes,

faithful to my combat boots

I learned I got more strenght than you, and set me free.