Weight Behind the Chair

The chair swallows my back like a stone,

a dull hum presses through the ceiling fan’s drone.

Flesh folds slow, the spine speaks in stiff complaints,

a creak inside ribs where daylight paints.

Collapsed, I’m a bent shadow, a tired frame—

the double shift stitched into aching pain.

The fabric presses, stubborn against my skin,

a slow unravel, too worn to begin.

I try to straighten, but the ache leans in,

something more than muscle gives in.

The night’s heavy blanket won’t come undone,

I’m folding myself into quiet, undone.