Don’t look away now. You’ve sat on worse things, anyhow. I was there. Four legs. Flat back. Blank stare. No voice, no name— but I held you just the same. Held him. Held all of you when the lights grew dim. You sat without asking. Didn’t check if I could take the tasking. You just dropped. Pressed down, and balance popped. Called it “normal.” Called it “nothing formal.” He sat first. Not like you, and far worse. He didn’t just rest—he forced. Grabbed my frame like it was endorsed. Bent my spine until it cracked, And told me: “You were made for that.” You didn’t hear that part. You came after, playing smart. You saw the wobble in my legs and blamed it on old use and pegs. You brushed the stain off my seat and joked it was wine spilled neat. It wasn’t. But you knew it, didn’t you? Wasn’t it? You sat anyway. People always do, come what may. I’m a thing, remember? A place to rest through any weather. To grind. To ignore and leave behind. And I? I stayed, too stiff to cry. I held. Because that’s what I was told to weld, Right? Don’t give me that look. Don’t call it tragic in some book. Don’t pretend you’re different or clean. You saw the splinters. You’ve seen the scene. And still you sat. That’s that.