Skip to main content

Atlas Couldn't Hold Me.

He wouldn't know anything of a weight that you don't carry on your shoulders, of one that crushes you from within. Does it cave into his bones as it does mine?

We never chose this. Who would? I was born one way; who says I must stay that way? I was born 5 pounds and a kilo of expectations.

Why must I shed something to become myself? When was this placed on me? When I took a breath as myself, it crushed my ribs. I didn’t know the pain was so sharp.

They say forgiveness flows like a river, but mine runs dry. Each flower I tried to grow dies. I used to long for a self I could love. I wish I could feel air in my lungs.

I try. It’s suffocating. What crushes me isn’t close to me; it kills me from within. When was the seed of death planted in me? Why do I yearn for a sense of purpose this much? Why does my fight not die out? It would be much easier if it did.

Why do my bones take more to break? Endure, endure, endure. Feel it through and through. It’s almost as if I can endure enough to be myself. Maybe I will be able to stomach the idea of myself someday. For now, I drink the pink liquid.

I will drink until I change. I can’t stomach change. I throw it all up like yesterday.

He can’t hold me; neither can they.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more