Rusted Wheel

I am turning.
Not gracefully.
Not clean.
But the motion is real—
a groan,
a drag,
a rhythm made of ruin.

Every part of me
was built for this once.
To spin,
to hum,
to gleam beneath the weight.

But I forgot
what oil feels like.
Forgot what it means
to move
without pain.

Now every rotation
is a scream in the joints.
Every forward inch
pulls something loose
that used to hold me together.

And still—
I turn.
Because I was made to.
Because the rust doesn’t kill you,
just slows you down
until you mistake the sound of breaking
for progress.

I long for stillness.
But I don’t remember how.
The momentum is older than I am.
The axle is cracked.
The engine is memory.
And it won’t let me go.

So I spin.
And I spin.
And I spin.

Not out of hope.
But out of habit.

And the music of it—
that grinding ache—
is the only song
I’ve ever really known.

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