10 pounds.
That's how much a human head weighs,
after you factor everything in.
Eyes, teeth, hair, a brain.
Ten pounds.
And you're expected to hold all of that up
With a thin
flimsy
neck.
And once the water pools in,
and you're so close to drowning,
you're expected to hold all ten pounds up just enough to grasp the air in your submerged lungs.
To fill your wrinkled puffy body with a little more life.
10 pounds.
I remember a time when I was so in love.
Despite seeing and hearing and knowing all the wrong he was doing.
I kept that ten pounds held high into the air and I kept going.
Then I remember the end of that love. When everything came crashing down.
And the air left my lungs.
The tears left my eyes.
And my heart,
left
my
chest.
But the ten pounds remained on my shoulders, being forced up by whatever strength I had left.
I remember the first move on from that.
And I remember it blowing up shortly after.
And despite the outside world pushing and prodding trying to force my head under water.
I am stubborn.
Too stubborn.
And the ten pounds remaind upright.
Someone asked me if I think of you, and I thought,
about how much a human head weighs instead.
Because it's easier to say no when my mind is focused on that, then when I drift back to the sleepless nights spent wondering what went wrong between you and I.
Wondering what I did to deserve the water now everywhere.
But somehow I was so bad that I don't deserve the sweet flow of water to my lungs.
I can't put down these ten pounds, watch the light reflect through the surface of the water.
I don't get to put down the pressure to;
stand taller
smile bright
be prettier.
10 pounds. That I am not lucky enough to drop.
But I have the burden of continuing to hold on my fragile, decaying neck.
And despite the ocean around me I can not drown.
These ten pounds don't sink.
They float.
C. G.
YOU ARE READING
No one is there
Poetrypoetry book. all the things I've written that I could never say out loud. Some topics may be difficult for some people so check for disclaimers .
