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The Cycle, by Natasha Schulmeister.
Gravity chains me to the ground,
I lust for a thrill,
I itch for pleasure.
As I try to fly,
As I try to break free,
My circumstance begins taunting me.
How far can I bend?
How long can I pull?
It's a game of wits.
A challenge of my strength.
I will not lose.
I will gain control.
The image of my success is ahead,
I can taste it.
And just like that I am free,
I am uncontrolled.
I am disquieted,
Then I am numb.
Where do I go now?
I am lost,
& what I once knew as balance is now an endless drop.
A black hole of infinite detachment.
I frantically search for my prior existence, Promising patience,
Vowing acceptance of state.
I engrave these oaths into my soul,
Etching deeper and deeper,
Hoping, praying to feel something.
Gravity's presence lingers near,
And I can breathe again.
It offers me what once was my horror,
Binding me to my newly made promises.
I lock myself in,
Neglecting any haunting memories of panic,
Of unhappiness, of anxiety.
Slowly I begin to feel that familiar tinge of aching.
I am awake.
I have failed by default due to a lack of viable options.