Chair

I had a chair once. Cats had scratched its side.
I pushed the stuffing back and stitched it up
not all that neatly. Someone spilled a cup
of coffee down its back. The chair was wide

and comfortable though I’d had to stack
cushions inside the seat where it had torn.
Lie back in it and you would start to yawn.
My body is that chair. Stuffed like a sack

it sags in places, worn holes in its weave.
Its scars and stains the story of my days.
I’d never chose to cover or erase
those marks, but cannot let myself believe

that anyone would choose to snuggle here
or yawn or stretch or stay a week or year.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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