The Weight I Carry

The clock ticks loud in a room stripped bare,

seconds stabbing like the truth I dodged.

"You’re holding onto the hurt like a lifeline,"

words dropped heavy, slow, and sharp.

I wanted to lash out, break the silence,

but the sting settled deep beneath skin.

That weight I carried, dragged beneath the surface,

was no shield, but a chain.

The therapist’s voice, clinical and cold,

exposed the ballast I clung to,

a hurt not kept to protect,

but to anchor me in place.

I breathe, raw and unsteady,

a heart split open by the sound

of a truth too fierce to deny,

and the clock’s relentless puncture.