This body is heavy with stories,
each pound a word I never chose.
I carry them with me,
a weight that presses into my bones,
fills the space between my skin and the world.
Some days, I feel like I'm sinking,
each step an anchor pulling me deeper,
each breath an effort,
as though the air itself resists me.
I've become a stranger to lightness,
forgotten the ease of movement,
the joy of simply being in this skin.
Instead, I am bound to the earth,
tethered by the excess
that grows and clings like shadow.
I hear the whispers, the silent looks,
the weight of judgment heavier
than anything I bear.
"Too much," they say,
as if I don't already know
the gravity of my own body.
But they don't see the quiet war,
the battle beneath the surface,
where hunger is more than food,
where comfort turns to shame.
I fight to reclaim a space
that no longer feels like mine,
to find light in this mass of flesh.
And still, I carry it all,
the weight, the world, the whispers.
I hold it close,
waiting for the moment
when I can finally set it down.
