The Weight I Carry

The suitcase waits half-open,

a spill of clothes I barely recognize

folded into fragments

of a past life.

Dragging it down the stairs,

a thud with every step —

more than fabric and metal,

a burden stitched into seams.

The zipper stuck, caught

between worn threads and faded stickers,

places I never wanted to return to

clinging like lost skin.

This weight I carry isn’t light,

not even close —

a slow dragging

away from everything I thought I'd leave behind.