no weight
to our words anymore.

not the extra weight
you carry on your arms these days—
that’s just time
reminding you
you won’t be young forever.

i’m talking real weight.

remember the race?
you finished last.
but next time—eighth.
your father said,

“why not first?”

your sister finished first.

weight.

“where’d you get that nose?”
my mother asked.

little things
with heavy burdens.
they follow us—
debts we repay
not with love,
but by giving ourselves away.

i guess that’s why
we’re still on the carousel.

you missed my birthday,
i missed yours.
aries. libra.

and the birth of jesus—
the not-so-quiet ways
we try to break god.

how’s that going for you?

-

hell,
i cried on easter.
for my sins.

my mother said
i did the same once—

we were evicted— again.
easter vigil.
i rubbed my eyes
with the playground dirt—
last time
in that nice town.

i didn’t know
i’d spread poison ivy
across my face.

i don’t remember that moment—
or when fear
turned to anger.

-

you’re silver spoon.
so we are not the same.

but our pain—
pound for pound—
is.

-

we only ever learnt the weight of people.