the weight in my chest is the what if what if what if of everything, it’s so damn heavy, the tiny hand on my face changed everything, not a complaint, but a fact, a before and after line drawn in crayon on the wall, permanent and bright and smeared at the edges, like i tried to erase it, but it won’t fade completely, and that little voice i hear when i'm pretending to listen to chris talk about work, it says remember who you were… before, but who was i? a girl with paint under her nails and a sky full of possibility, now there's just minivan fumes and goldfish dust and this crushing weight.