Weight

"How much do you weigh?" he asks.
The question stings into me
like the scorching heat of a thousand electric
shocks.
How much do I weigh?
The question twirls in my mind
and wraps around each of my limbs
my fingers
my love handles
my toes
my stretch marks
my legs
my chins.
How much do I weigh?
"Well," I reply,
"My legs are filled with the weight of all the places I've traveled and all those I've yet to go,
my stomach holds the weight of all the home-cooked meals I've eaten, and all those I missed out on when my mother left us,
my lungs are weighed down by the millions of breaths I've taken in my life, and the tragedy they endured the day they almost took no more,
my arms are burdened by all the weight they have pulled in carrying my family and myself through the hard times that darkened our days,
my head is troubled heavily by the depressing thoughts of suicide and hatred that flow relentlessly through it daily,
and my heart is filled with an everlasting emptiness, a lack of love, and an absence of life that drags me down like an anchor, brimming with the need to be accepted and wanted yet never finding the sweet satisfaction of knowing such.
So, if you must know,
that's how much I weigh," I breathe, finally.
A blank, pale face mirrors mine in his now dampened stature.
And with all this talk
of weight
and pounds
I feel myself becoming even heavier
as my eyes fill up with tears
and a heavy emptiness
consumes me.