Heavy

The train seat was cold

under my wet jeans.

The fabric clung,

seams pressed into my thighs—

I couldn't shift the weight,

couldn't make it sit right.

The cold crept slow.

Not shocking.

Slower than that.

The gradual theft of warmth.

Twenty minutes felt like more.

My legs went numb first,

then the numbness spread—

up my spine,

into my chest.

I was trapped inside

my own clothes,

heavy as drowning,

heavy as the rain

still falling outside the window.

I thought about getting off

at the next stop,

about standing in the station

dripping,

let the air move around me.

But I stayed.

Because sometimes

you have to sit with the weight

of what you chose.