Sometimes, when the burden feels heavy, I
hide under the blanket and imagine
some sort of invisible embrace.

Nothing feels more comforting than the smell
of my own hair on my pillow, the coldness
of little teardrops as they chase one another
down my cheeks.

Draft and darkness surround me as I nestle my body
onto the hard foam of my mattress
when I talk myself out of my woes with silent whispers.

In the midnight, I walk through the empty yellow-lit hall to the bathroom
empty my intestines of water and then take another glass.
I feel my stomach gloat and made satisfied sounds.

That’s when I remember tears are made for a reason, to be extracted
like something toxic, to wash the dirt away from the body.

Gravity can press on its weight and squeeze me with tension
like a juiced-out fruit
the end result is a mass of flimsy bones and flesh. But humans are like balloons
I only need to be refilled, like a barren jar, with fresh God-sent breath
and maybe, if I’m gorged enough, I can fly.

And that’s when the burden stops feeling heavy at all.