Under the weight of others.
Under the weight of myself.
I’ve lost myself to waiting.
I’ve lost myself to thought.
Can I act?
Can I be action?
The weight of something lies on me. The weight of thinking. The weight of waiting. Of thinking about this choice or that music, or that person, or that or that or that. I don’t even know my own thoughts anymore but am a product of everything I’m not. My throat burns with all the fuck yous I haven’t spoken. And I know my heart couldn’t take it, even if those words could be choked outward instead of in. If I am writing for you, then I am not writing for me.
Why does winter hold so much energy for me? Where do you go when that season is over? Can I see and act? Can I act? Can I be action?
There is a sad anchor in my heart and it’s attached to my throat.