Poetry: balloon.

Lia Jones, Writer, Pub

my heart is like a balloon.
the looks, the brushes of fingers, the smiles when
you thought i wasn’t looking, all swirling around
the growing rubber and latex body,
hoping to be enough to rise
and rise
and rise
until i’m high enough to finally hear those quiet
words i’ve longed to hear my whole life.
the balloon is always inflated much too fast,
leaving me dizzyingly under-oxygenated and
“what ifs” and “maybes” are a consistent,
quick flow that stretch the balloon
before it’s ready.
it swells it so large that it scares me,
that i could feel so much that i’m
close to bursting.
and then, the doubts seep in.
they poison the air supply,
corrupt the joy.
it hates the uncertainty, the
guessing game. the looks
start to be analyzed,
the touches debunked, the
smiles explained away.
the balloon starts to
rise and fall
until it’s so stretched and deformed that it wants
to make it stop, to make it

that’s what it thinks, anyway.