Press of the hymn

That hymnal pressed into my forearms,

pages curling, edges frayed,

a burden not just held but worn.

The leather cover dug sharp,

a weight that pressed on ribs and time,

heavier than the quiet prayers

that filled the cramped church air.

Each note sung was a stone,

slipping, sliding through stained glass light,

a sound that folded under skin,

settling like dust on cracked wood.

I felt it then—more than paper,

a gravity that pulled me down,

a pressing hymn that asked

if I could carry what would not let go.