Heavy

by Kiese Laymon

We strapped ourselves in for the next disaster, knowing—though we had no proof—we would always recover.

like all American children, I’ve been brutally dishonest with you. And like all American parents, you’ve been brutally dishonest with me.

no one I knew, other than you, wanted to swim in, or eat, books.

For the first time in my life, I realized telling the truth was way different from finding the truth, and finding the truth had everything to do with revisiting and rearranging words. Revisiting and rearranging words didn’t only require vocabulary; it required will, and maybe courage. Revised word patterns were revised thought patterns. Revised thought patterns shaped memory.

The softer parts of my heart and body were getting harder and those harder parts didn’t want to hurt you, but they wanted to never, ever be hurt by you again.

“If you want me to believe you when you’re lying,” she said, “then you want to see me break.”

my body knew what was going to happen, because it, and only it, knew what I’d made it do, and what I hoped it would forget.

I didn’t know how to be around you and not give you whatever you wanted. I wasn’t trying to punish you. I was trying to do less harm to myself.

I lied to you, sometimes because I did not know how to tell you the truth, sometimes because I did not understand the truth, other times because I did not think you could hold the truth.

What if you didn’t do the best you could? What if you could have actually done better?”