From The Archives: This Weight Is A Gift

Bruises on my hands from being held so tight I must have thought I was losing myself.  Marching around so confident but I’m just a scared little girl looking to be saved just like the others I know that parade around wearing their insecurity on their sleeve.  Waking up alone and naked to stare at my ceiling for an hour before my day begins and I reflect on my rapid ups and downs wondering who will peek through my window of duality.   My phone call log looks more like a manic punch line rather than hospitable hellos. Another morning of fearing that my tongue misbehaved and hoping my words collapse without a ripple.  Worrying starts to hurt.

Disappointment weaves my soul and leaves only a few crucial moments to prevent the darkness of my storm cloud but my masochist wind breaks open my veins releasing my solace in disease.  It’s my cycle and I peddle faster down hill because eventually the momentum will fade and I don’t even know how to coast but I envy those that can enjoy the breeze.

My chest hurts, my liver hurts, my lungs hurt, my heart must hurt and when expressing doesn’t carry much weight and treading lightly becomes too difficult I suppose we all lose our charm.  Maybe we’re all held back by something.  Life gets tiring, love gets harder, innocence gets taken or lost along the way, purpose gets misplaced, people come and go, and sometimes my words tend to get stuck between my lips, but I know what I know; no one stole my soul.


One thought on “From The Archives: This Weight Is A Gift

  1. Lisa, sometimes I don’t understand what you are writing; then I come back and read it again and understand it fully. This writing was that way…it is how we really are especially the older we get

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