The Weight of Water

Some days, I'm a serene lake—still and quiet,

Other days, I'm an ocean—crashing hard against the shore,

The kind I wish I could cup gently in my hands,

But the thing is, I don't just feel emotions—I drown in them.

Joy isn’t just happiness,

It's golden light spilling through the cracks of my ribs,

Warming every inch of my being.

Grief isn't just sadness,

It's a black hole in my chest dimming every light within me,

A hollow my heart heavily carries.

Rage isn't just anger,

It's tons of raining sulfur coming down from the sky,

Setting everything that it hits on fire.

Love isn’t just affection,

It's wildfire, spreading too quickly and intensely,

Consuming me before I can even name the feeling.

Regret isn't just guilt,

It's the ghosts who come taunting me at night,

Shedding light only to my mistakes while blurring out my efforts.

Pain isn't just heartache,

It's a tide that floods—rushing in with force,

Pulling me under, drowning me slow.

But what else is there to do,

When my heart was built with no floodgates?

How do you silence something that was meant to be loud?

How do you shrink something that was meant to take up space?

Some call it too much.

Some call it complicated.

I call it having a soul with so many layers—

Designed to feel everything deeply.

And maybe, just maybe,

The weight of water isn’t meant to drown me.

Maybe it’s teaching me how to swim.