What we carry

We carry the faces
of people who left mid-sentence.

The words we should have said,
rotting at the edges.

We carry the nights
we pretended to be fine,
and the mornings
we couldn’t get out of bed.

Some things stay lodged in the body—
a hand that was too rough,
a silence that was too long.

We carry the weight of survival
like a medal
and a curse.

And sometimes,
we carry nothing at all—
but still feel bent,
as if the air itself
is heavy.

Not everything can be put down.
Some things,
we just learn to walk with.