Halfway

The drawer stuck halfway like it always does,

and I pulled harder, needing it open now,

needing my morning back, and something broke—

I yanked until my hand hurt, and somehow

I was furious at a drawer, at wood,

at the fact that I can't manage this,

can't keep my grip elastic, and I stood

there shaking, and the rage began to hiss

from somewhere deeper than the stuck drawer,

something about control, about the space

between who I want to be and what I am,

and I couldn't see my face

in the mirror—couldn't look—

just pulled until the drawer gave a little,

and I realized I was crying,

that this wasn't about the drawer at all, this

small moment where everything fails,

where I fail, where I'm not capable

of even this, of even pulling open

a drawer without becoming vulnerable

in a way that terrifies me.

The drawer is still stuck.

I'm still standing there.

Nothing has changed.