weight.

What is this wounding?

For whatever reason, you and I and everyone else are convinced that only one of us is obligated to hold it.

And so, with blistered hands, I hold another coal formed against this body,

this spirit.

[The Uber driver made a joke about Africa/ my ancestors.]

[I was followed for six blocks and onto the train, I had to get off at another stop.

Sorry I'm late.]

I am embarrassed. Carrying all this

Black stuff

coal is only given to naughty children

reserved for deviants

And some who catch glimpses of the scabs on my knuckles

blush and tell me

I am so sorry this happened but I really gotta go,

make sure to brew yourself a cup of lavender tea and

I'll send you an article on self care. Good seeing you.

This weight.

Stuffed in pockets on my hips burning through my jeans,

burdened to the brim of my backpack causing tight hips,

a weak right knee, grinding teeth, head aches, hypertension, heart disease.

I wish Santa was real so I could give it back, return to sender this weight heavy on my back

one for my boyfriend who choked me in front of the science teacher in 9th grade

another for the man who raped every other woman I know

three for the men who kissed me and hit on me at work

the burn marks still haven't faded from my cheek

a few for the non-profit who keeps running out all of my friends/who doesn't care about Black women

another for being tackled by step-father

a few for loving non-men

weight.

I am at the post office trying to submit a return-to-sender

weight

The clerk at the counter says Santa isn't real

The North Pole isn't a complete address

and by the way,

your parcel is a fire hazard

and the weight isn't registering on the scale

I said can you please take it anyway? I don't know how to put them out

weight

My closet is turning into a furnace

The clerk asks have you tried the fire department? as a coal burns through the bottom of the box

I am embarrassed. My face is burning. My jeans are splitting at the seams

and the woman behind me says

I believe you, I know it's fucked up, but don't tell anyone I told you that. The fires keep coming and there are only so many of particular size that I can put out with these hands.

My bedroom is a furnace

and he is telling me that we need to be strategic and that

I am running out of time but also things take time to change and

people need time to change and maybe I should try to be a little more patient. I ask for a hand and he says there is only so much he can do with this weight. But he wishes me the best.