Poetry | Journal

how much is in a number is an aggrandized revelation, it’s something but it’s not much.
to sit with that number imagined as weights,
each day a disc sliding off the end of the bar that’s slipped from the rack and pinned you,
slowly relieving the pressure on your chest with each calendar tick,
there’s another injury to be made in fighting that bar off, better to sit and rest
and say nothing when there’s nothing productive or positive to be said.
an action taken to hide deceit is louder than crashing barbells anyway.
weightlifting is one thing, animosity is another.

how much is in a number is not nearly as much the second go around either, despite face value,
maybe that’s what’s made easier this recovery period,
a callus is formed to protect the body from the next drop and
my skin is already pretty thick but anyone who’s split a callus knows
it still stings.
it’s worse when you trusted the spotter to have your back,
but it’s nothing special to be another statistic
for everyone in these Nikes to be the routine problem
seems like a revelation of a common denominator, I’d suppose that’s something.

I have practiced strict discipline to not look toward that gymnasium since the new year’s start,
an opposite to the standard resolution. Though it feels quite resolved to me.