My chest keeps the ground on a leash.
Wings file complaints; gravity signs them.
Protocol says: drop ballast.
Experience says: ballast bites.
Crowds knock like loose shutters.
I keep the face that passes trial.
They test for turbulence anyway,
then ask why I don’t lift.
The math stays the same:
heavy heart, low ceiling.
The frame is aircraft-grade,
the engine isn’t.
Why am I notarizing strangers’ weather
when no one co-signs mine?
Why do I tape my mouth closed
while their knives practice public speaking?
Numb isn’t mercy; it’s a switch.
Scars don’t ping the dashboard.
The fuselage just lists a little,
and I learn a new angle to stand.
So: drop ballast, they say.
But ballast remembers its owner.
Release is another word for teeth,
and I’ve already paid the landing fee.
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