The Unsticking Sound

The hum of the waiting room,

a low, fluorescent bloom

on pale green walls.

Someone arguing low, then a pause.

A child's shoe, pulled off, then on again,

a sound like tearing skin.

Rip.

The fabric catches, holds, then tears.

It says: nothing truly bears

the weight of constant touch,

it can only take so much

before it loses grip,

a flimsy, loud, insistent strip.

My own frayed edges start to show,

a place where things just won't stay whole.

This holding on, this forced pretense,

a sound that makes no common sense,

just Velcro's ragged, raw complaint,

making everything feel faint.