By Brittany Johnston
I want to put pen to paper,
—have it bleed, onto the page,
as freely as,
life bleeds me.
But I’m not supposed to say that,
—not any more than I’m supposed to comment, on the weight,
of life, as it throws,
vinegar
Not the weight of being sick,
—a stigma,
painting,
with a broad brush.
Not the weight of being a lover,
—and carrying their burdens,
before my own,
always,
Not the weight of being a woman,
—in a hospital gown,
his opinion of my body,
stronger than keeping my life.
Not the weight of being a mother,
—because it’s easy,
believing myself a failure,
without question.
If paper were matches
—and vinegar, gasoline,
I could burn down this world, and still,
still, I would carry its weight.
Resiliency tightens,
—a hangman’s noose,
sitting with apparent glee,
these weights, strangle.
I plead with myself,
—a war within,
maybe life knows what I do not,
and maybe, I preferred,
vinegar, all along.