It’s not something I could name, it’s

all those I love sitting on my shoulders, whispering questions in my ears and pulling the answers out of my throat.

It’s the hooks in my lips, pinning them back to my cheeks.

It’s the ever present knife in my brow, twisting when I feel the need to speak.

It’s the cinch bag of my stomach, shooting closed in defiance whenever I consider a meal.

It’s more than a feeling, a fleeting emotion, it’s the weight under which I try to live.

And I still can’t name it, all I know is the weight and the dragging, my collection of masks for different occasions.