a burlap sack of iron bars.

A friend once told me: "You're a burlap sack of iron bars."
I laughed. Then I turned to him and said:
"On the inside, I'm a milk bag."
We laughed together that time, and it became our joke.
Leather and metal, hiding something hilariously flimsy.

But now...I fear there may be a leak.
Small,
almost unnoticeable.
Yet at the same time, most certainly there.
Because minute by minute, day by day,
I can't help but feel a little more empty.
Emptier than I should be.

And that scares me.


I don't know where the leak is, therefore I cannot patch it up.
I don't know how large it is, therefore I cannot tell how worried I should be.
But all the same, I feel it.
Whether it is the placebo effect of a clinging suspicion,
or maybe a roughed and scuffed edge, blown out of proportion,
I feel it.

And that scares me.


And I wait. 
I wait apprehensively, for the moment when something will come along.
Catch at the edges
and tear it wide open.
Only then, will I know where it was
and by that point I will have lost too much of myself.
Too much to care, and too much to take care of what I've so carefully built around me.
Too much to patch up the burlap sack,
and too much to hold up the iron bars.
Too much.

And soon after, the burlap will frey and scuff.
The bars will have rusted with tears and cracked with weight,
because I can't lean on them forever.
One day they'll crumble.
And I'll be empty.


And that scares me.