Stuck

I yanked the drawer this morning reaching for socks

and my ring caught between the frame and wood,

silver bright against the old stain,

and I couldn't get my hand back out

without the metal cutting into my knuckle,

that thin red line appearing like I'd done it on purpose,

like I'd been punished for wanting something

that the drawer didn't want to give.

And I kept thinking about the week—

the meeting where I said too much,

the friend who didn't text back,

the way my manager looked at my email

like it was written in a language she didn't speak—

all of it compressed into three seconds of pressure,

the drawer pressing back against my hand,

my hand pressing back against the drawer,

and when I finally got free

the drawer stayed open like a mouth

mid-apology, mid-excuse,

something I'd started but couldn't finish,

couldn't even bring myself to close.