The Weight Of: A Poem

Last time I saw you,

you were high off life.

I had no idea you'd come down

and ask to sink into a pit you told me to avoid at all costs.

You were one of my living guides, with dreamy romance-book hair

and an unforgettable smirk that wooed them all.

Except for me, of course.

I've smelled your breath in the morning.

I knew better.

Whenever you called, I answered.

Whenever you needed my arms, I was already squeezing your equally tiny body.

We laughed enough to fill the spaces of your solemn silence—not enough to ease the pain.

I never knew it ached so deeply.

I didn't pick up on it, nor were you putting it down.

And that's okay on your end.

I'm still trying to say that for my side.

I was told you just couldn't find peace,

but I often wonder if you did, and your inner circle

kept taking it from you when

you were busy pouring your soul out to create.

Someone else said you just couldn't get over the heartbreak of a high-school lover,

but I remember you saying she kept choosing her addiction over you,

and self-respect finally rattled some sense into you.

I think you were just tired of fighting for things that so many didn't have to strike blows for.

I think you were tired of advocating for basic needs to be met.

I get it.

I hate that I get it.

I hate that I understand.

But I'm glad you're at peace.

Relieved that you've found relief.

© 2025 Jasmine Farrell All Rights Reserved