Tensile Strength

It was at the back of the drawer, buried under menus

and dead batteries. A pale, tan loop of exhaustion.

I picked it up to bundle the bills, the late notices,

the things that keep coming even when you stop asking.

I stretched it—just a little—to see if it still had it.

The surface was a desert, all cracked and dry,

a landscape of micro-fissures waiting for the failure.

It didn't even put up a fight. It just snapped.

A sharp sting across my knuckle, a red welt rising

like a sudden, angry thought. Now it’s just two limp strings

of dead latex on the counter. I’m staring at my hand,

wondering how many times I can be pulled before I do the same.