my boyfriend blocks me for four days
because I won’t give him the chair he wants.
I’m left scrolling through IKEA listings,
pretending the algorithm knows my waiting.
outside, neighbors drag out plastic stools
for another birthday party. balloons
tied to the wrong wrist, a dog howling
like it knows who gets the last seat.
on day three, I start naming the chairs
in my apartment: recliner as prophet,
barstool as witness. I kneel before
the ottoman, bargaining like a priest.
when he unblocks me, it feels
less like forgiveness, more like return policy:
no receipt, box dented, parts missing.
we drag it inside together, silent, already exhausted.
what I wanted to say was:
I would’ve sat on the floor
if it meant staying.
