The Weight of How I Stand

My spine curves like a tired question,

shoulders bowing under invisible weights.

The chair’s edge presses into skin,

a red line I try to ignore.

Stretching, shifting—half a promise to myself,

but the ache settles back,

lingering, a dull reminder

that standing straight is a kind of work

I forget to do.

I watch the faint imprint on my arm,

a silent ledger of hours spent

slouched beneath the weight

of this everyday gravity.