What if life was a yoga class you never attended,

the mat a limp corpse,

sprawled open in the corner,

poses etched like hieroglyphs in a language

you’re too proud to fucking learn?

What if the world twisted itself into violent shapes—

spines cracking, limbs dislocating—

while you stood at the edge,

a monument to inertia,

arms crossed, jaw clenched,

daring it to break you like glass?

The room heaves without you—

inhale, exhale,

its breath a slow, obscene pulse,

but you grip your stillness like a loaded gun,

as if movement would drag you screaming into yourself.

Would you ever step in,

or let the class end,

your body unshattered,

but your edges jagged,

cutting only the shadows you cast?