dense enough to sink

i sit here which a heart that doesnt aches,

but the one that accumulates.

like sedimentary pressure build from years of unsaid explanations.

they call my silence indolence

my attemps as procrastination

as if despair was a moral failure

and exhaustion a character flaw.

why will they ever see the internal labour?

see that the mind is haunting its own weight uphill

and the soul is clocking overtime just to remain functional.

why will they?

depression is hiding under the disguise of stillness

while they mistake it for refusal.

oh and my parents? they're unfinished sentences

nothing i do punctuates their lovely expectations

i carry their wounds like heirlooms,

their pain and suffering leaking through genetics, silence and anger inside my body

making myself become a guardian of grief i never authored.

friends, on the other hand narrate their breakups like folklores,

temporary sorrow wrapped in casual laughter.

and i listen. absorbing the endings like prophecies.

each failed love that they sing reinforces one thing

that attachment is a rehearsal for loss.

in my own relationships, im a paradox.

overflowing with intention,

yet insufficient in effect.

i love loudly but too incorrectly,

i give endlessly but too inaccurately.

i measure my worth with the outcomes i was never in control of.

and the reality is,

i dont fear abandonment

but the possibility that my presence is a burden.

this heaviness i carry in my chest is settling in the place where hope one resided,

compressing desire to be seen to something..unrecognizable.

my chest is an archive

of unmeet expectations and affection that never quite lands where its meant to.

perhaps, the weight is not a damage ( i hope )

but density - too saturated with meaning to remain light and deep enough to sink in.

some chests do not feel heavy becaus they are weak,

they feel heavy because they have been carrying what never meant to be carried alone.