when we were younger, we were given small items. they fit in the soft palms of our hands. the edges were smooth, as not to catch on our vulnerable flesh. when we dropped these small things, they would clatter to the floor & our mother would rush to pick it up, dust it off, & hand it back to us. “we don’t want to loose that,” she’d say, with a soft tut in the back of her throat, but her smile would tell us that she was happy when we held onto that small thing. her response told us that it was important, & that smile would disappear if we were to lose it. so we held on tight, & soon those small things weren’t so small any more & it wasn’t our mother we were trying to make happy. we were attempting to impress the person staring back at us in the mirror every morning. “look how strong i am,” we say, showing off the things that started off small but somehow developed & grew into a chaos & jumble. we would take on more, if any could fit. yet somehow we do make room for more, further tipping our scales & putting us dangerously close to a total collapse.
we carry the heavy things because disappointment is the last thing we could handle. we’re paralyzed, holding tight to what could only be the weight of our world, calling ourselves heroes because we haven’t let go. we say our arms are used to the weight. someone couldn’t fake a smile if what they were carrying really was back-breaking, right? when really, we carry the heavy things because — after all this time — it hurts more to stand up straight.