Gravity of Grown-Up Days

Bills spill across the table—

papers sharp like small regrets,

a stack of unopened demands

pressing down heavier than my shoulders.

The bulb overhead hums low,

a bare eye that doesn’t blink,

watching me trade pieces of myself

for a place that never feels like home.

Every choice folds into another,

tangled like a knot I can’t undo,

quiet moments swallowed whole

by the constant ache of must and should.

I carry this weight like an old coat,

sometimes loose,

sometimes tight,

a weight nobody sees

but me, pressing deep

into the ribs and bones.

Adulthood is a slow sinking,

a gravity that holds me still

in a restless room.