The Quiet Weight Poem by Raphael Gouws

There is a room no one enters,
not because it is locked,
but because I learned long ago
to smile at the door.

By daylight
I tighten bolts,
wash grease from my hands,
carry groceries,
carry conversations,
carry people.

At night,
I carry myself.

There is a voice
that never raises its volume,
because it never has to.

It simply whispers,

'Not enough.'

Not loud enough to scare the world,
just loud enough
to drown out the good.

It steals laughter
before it reaches my chest.
It turns every compliment
into a question.

It asks why someone would stay
when I cannot always stand myself.

Then there is love.

A pair of arms
that feel like shelter.
A heartbeat
that reminds me
I am still here.

A hug is never just a hug.

It is the feeling
of a thousand cracked pieces
being held together
before they fall apart.

A kiss is never just a kiss.

For one beautiful moment
my mind forgets itself
and remembers only
the person in front of me.

And that silence...

That silence
is priceless.

So I hide the storm.

I tell jokes.
I fix broken things.
I say, 'I'm fine.'

Because I am terrified
that if someone sees
how hard I am trying not to break,

they will let go.

Still,

beneath the weight,
beneath the noise,
beneath the voice that says
I will never be enough,

there is a quieter whisper.

Small.

Fragile.

Stubborn.

It says,

'Keep going.'

And maybe,

one day,

the hands that hold me
will convince me
of what that whisper
has been trying to say all along:

That I was never beyond saving.

That I was never meant
to carry the whole world
by myself.