i have never been good at being careless.
the world has shaped my posture, stiffened my shoulders,
raised my defenses like castle walls.
the other day, someone said they would describe me as
“heavily guarded”
and i wasn’t sure how to react to being told that my heart
is like a damsel in distress, coughing out car-alarm sirens
whenever someone gets too close.
my back and my ribs and my chest have all been hurting lately.
my mother takes her steady hands and pushes my shoulders down, telling me that
you are not atlas, baby. you can let go. —the weight of the world does not rest on my shoulders, so how come i can feel the pain of seven billion in my bones? (k.m.r.)