Just Call Me Atlas

I own a marvelous sort of sadness.

I burrow inside,

wrap it around me,

a living cloak.

//

I wear a fashionable sort of fear,

draping it just so;

if I cannot be rid of it,

it may as well look tasteful.

//

I slide worries onto my fingers,

hang them from my neck, my earlobes.

They glimmer every time I breathe.

Some are mine, some are borrowed; a few are stolen.

//

Joy and peace, I keep tucked away,

safe, for special occasions.

I can never wear them for long-

they don’t seem to fit quite right;

too loose, like something’s missing.

//

So I don my cloak, my robe, my jewels,

even sleeping in my formalwear.

It isn’t heavy,

not anymore.

I’m used to the weight.

///