The Curve

In the shop window, a sudden flash

of my reflection, and there it was.

The way my shoulders slump, a tired lash

against the day, without much cause.

My back, a question mark, a subtle bow,

almost like I’m trying to fold myself small.

An apology to the ground, somehow,

to disappear before I even fall.

It’s not just tired muscles, I know.

It’s the weight of thoughts, a hidden strain.

This curve I carry, a quiet, stubborn show,

a silent burden, etched in bone and pain.