The Way I Stand

That low, dull ache, a constant friend,

between my shoulder blades, it lives.

A slight curve where I always bend,

a subtle weight my body gives.

Caught my shape in a shop window's glass,

the slight forward pitch, a question mark.

Like carrying some unseen mass,

or hiding something in the dark.

They say 'stand tall,' 'straighten up now.'

But this is me, this weary slump.

Each correction, a small, tired vow,

a stubborn, rooted, silent bump.

This slight collapse, this gentle stoop,

it fits me like a second skin.

A quiet, constant, private scoop

of everything I hold within.