Weight by Stina Trollbäck

I wish I could ignore the weight.

Ignore the weight like I ignore the black flapping walrus in my stomach.
Ignore the weight like I ignore the silver panging pain above my left eyelid.

I wish I didn’t feel the pressure in my toes.
Feel the pressure like I feel my blood pumping.

Feel the pressure like the potential energy in my body when all the water inside freezes, and my skin is bloating, and I know that if I had an ounce more water I would explode, and you would see me popping like a water balloon, because that’s what I am, really. But you don’t fill me up. You let me wallow in my water forever even though not a single cell is the same after seven years, and I should change myself every seven years, too, then I guess. I still sit with water too warm to drink and too cold to boil, but I’m still freezing and expanding, and I don’t know how you don’t see it because obviously I’m bigger than I was this morning.

Is it possible for me to spurt the water out of my nostrils like I’m the statue in the middle of a water fountain or to squeeze it through the gaps in my teeth?

Because I feel the pressure building. I feel my fingers swelling and my nails growing.
I feel your head on my shoulder when you lean on me, and it’s making my arms hurt and my back hurt, and I don’t need it to be that way.

So if you wouldn’t mind just leaning, possibly, on yourself for a minute?
I feel the weight, okay? I feel your weight.
I feel it like a burden, and I need you to get off. Okay? Please?
I have my own weight, and it’s heavier than you think it is, and heavier than I know it is.
Heavy weight like heavy butterfly anvils and heavy orangutang picture frames.