The weight of the dust
settles over my skin,
a slow, quiet burial
under the weight of time.
Each particle, a memory,
a moment lost to the world,
piling up until I am buried,
hidden beneath the layers
of a life I no longer recognize.
They say time heals,
but all it seems to do is bury—
bury the dreams I once had,
bury the voice I used to raise,
until I am left with nothing
But for the dust of what could have been.
It presses down,
A constant reminder
That this world was never mine
To shape or own.
I think of the dust after death —
Will it feel lighter?
Will the burden lift
Once I am freed
From the weight of their expectations?

Perhaps in that final stillness,
I can be more than dust,
More than the forgotten pieces
Of a life never fully lived.
But as I stand here,
Covered in the weight of it all
I know dust too
can be shaken off.
With one breath
I blow it swirling
each speck rising to the air
no longer a burden
but a dance of possibility
For even dust can float,
and in that floating,
there's freedom.
So I stand tall,
brushing the layers
aside, refusing
to let another world
that cannot weigh me down,
bury me alive within its clay and dust.
Within dust, I discover my form,
my freedom,
and never again shall I be weighed down.

.    .    .