The Chair That Wouldn't Sit

I sank slow, a breath caught beneath ribs,

the chair shifted, a small betrayal.

Rough wood bit my palm where varnish missed,

splinters stuck like secrets I’d let grow.

Months stacked like dust on unopened boxes—

all the noise and errands piled up, blocking light.

Finally, this unfinished puzzle held weight,

but not without creak and reluctant groan.

The seat uneven, a bruise beneath me,

some pieces never quite fitting the plan.

My hands remembered the grain, the resistance—

a stubbornness that matched my own.

Not perfect, this thing I made;

its flaws a quiet testament

that not everything built can hold steady,

or wants to.