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Jeannine's avatar

I wasn't good with anger. It flooded my  brain, burning like fire. Only headbanging quenched it. It was only a matter of time before something broke, but I couldn't help myself.

We fought and I fled. My husband followed, and saw my head bouncing off the countertop. Before I could strike again, he pulled me close, his tears wet against my neck.

"Honey, please stop," he pleaded. "We'll find a different way. C'mon, let's talk."

As he led me away from danger, I realized I needed to break the cycle.

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Jon Howski's avatar

The cycle leans against a crumbling wall, its frame speckled with rust, tires deflated, forgotten.

Once, it soared over mountains, chased the wind, carried its rider to victory. Crowds had cheered, champagne had flowed. It had been unstoppable.

Now, its chain sags, spokes creak in the breeze. No hands touch its handlebars, no feet push its pedals.

Memories fade. Glory turns to dust.

Like an old racehorse left in a broken stable, it waits—useless, discarded.

One day, when the wind finally snaps the frame, nobody will be around to care.

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