Weight

The weight of 123, not quite 115. 123 is still acceptable, but a weight still too large.

The weight of the hipsters, and their red flannels, red lipsticks, and the red backpacks. My red face is still acceptable.

The weight of the coffee shop’s patrons; hipsters, Chicanos, and those in between. The between carries such a weight.

The weight of everyone’s guilt. The guilt of their skin color, the guilt of crimes their ancestors committed but they feel responsible for. The weight of my own frustration at hearing them and thinking, “Can you forgive yourself? We already have.”

The weight of their voices; squeaky, gruff, guilty, and just in the middle. In the middle of my thoughts. In the middle of everything. What a weight.

The weight of my thoughts, my guilt because I hated the sound of theirs. I wanted time with my thoughts but the weight of loneliness was too much to bare.

The weight of everyone, the weight of myself. Why couldn’t we just shut each other up! The weight of the world is enough, is there a diet or exercise to rid ourselves of our own?

The weight becomes obesity, the artery of our soul quietly bursting. Bursting through every criticism, every silent blame, every invisible pointed finger.

The weight of the invisible mirror we carry around. We look in it only to see the ugly.

The weight of ugly guilt; ugly criticism of ourselves; our misshapen values; our misplaced blame; our ugly conditions.

The weight of being alive. Alive in a blaming society. An unforgiving society.

The weight will combust us. Congestive heart failure, the weight will end us.

The weight of everything. The weight we love to hate.

The weight that leaves no room for love.

The weight that will never let us come together as one.