The pressure,

It cripples 

My shoulders.

The anguish,

It crushes

My heart.

The long dormant

Scars that are

Too deep to

Scratch

Fire and 

Itch something

Fierce.

.

I’m fourteen

Again, 

With the 

Formidable

Red dread 

In my head

Reawakened…

The Day After.

Summertime boycotts.

Shall

We

Play

A

Game.

Creed’s loss.

Drago’s victory.

Wolverines become 

Targets of

Helicopter ambushes 

While we

Devour the

Juiciest 

Red apples and

Pray for 

Happily ever

After and

Peace.

.

Same as it ever was.

.

But this time,

Though,

It’s heavier,

With iron-clad threads 

Of clamoring dissonance

And pandemic fatigue

And the injustice of justice

Interwoven with

Humanity’s

Frayed strings

And compassion’s

Colorless fibers.

.

But this time,

Though,

It’s for real. 

The bombs

And the tanks

Purposely target

The beings 

Whose only crime

Is an address

On a certain street

In a certain country. 

The missiles

Pierce the heavens

As the bullets

Pierce the skin

And the screams

Pierce the silence,

The lives of

The innocents

No consequence to

Him

Who values

Authority 

And 

Avarice

Above 

All and

Lives his

Happily ever

After no

Peace.

The Ukrainian/Galician/Balkan heritage in my lineage and in my soul called me to write “Heavy.” I stand with my ancestral brothers and sisters wherever their feet may touch the Earth but especially those in Ukraine.

Thank you for joining me on my journey. I’m glad you’re here.

With love and gratitude,

Jill

“Heavy” was posted on jillocone.com on February 26, 2022. Views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the writer, who was not endorsed or compensated in any manner by any entity; views do not represent any employer. Copyright 2022, Jill Ocone. All rights reserved. Contact jillocone@gmail.com with reposting, licensing, and publishing inquiries.