Where it Lives

It isn’t just the heaviness. It’s what comes with it.

The way it turns inward. The way it becomes about me.

There are things I don’t do.

Small things.
Simple things.
Things that shouldn’t feel like this.

And they stay with me.

Not as moments,
but as proof.

Proof that something is wrong.
That something in me doesn’t move the way it should.

It isn’t just the heaviness. It’s what comes with it.

The way it turns inward.
The way it becomes about me.

It sits there loudly. 

Repeating itself.

Over and over

you should be able to do this
why can’t you just do it
there’s no reason for this
what is wrong with you

It doesn’t stop.

It follows me into everything. 

Sits beside me when I am still. 

Presses into me when I try to move. 

Until it isn’t tied to anything anymore. 

It’s just there. 

A quiet uncertainty, deep and unmoving, that I am not what I’m supposed to be. 

And I don’t say it. 

I don’t let it leave my mouth. 

Because once it does, once it takes shape outside of me, there’s no way to pretend it’s not true. 

So I keep it where it lives. 

Inside. 

Where it can stay heavy, and silent, and mine.