WHAT IT FEELS LIKE
It just sits on you. Like a sweater in warm weather.
Or a lie you can see through.
It just weighs on you. When you turn a corner, when you walk straight, when you look up. You're marked, the chosen one, the horse to carry the weight.
How do people not collapse from it?
While walking in the streets, in and out of shops, under rooftops and bus stops. An abandoned and surrendered collapse, from the weight. Midstep.
It squashes you.
And punishes you for being unable to bear it.
I've been sitting here.
Measuring my weight.
Shifting it from one thigh to the other.
From one eye to the other.