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Spinning In My Kitchen

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“Julie don’t.”
I begin to spin, in the very center,
in the little enclosed space,
of the brightly lit kitchen.
I stretch my arms wide, pushing my thin fingers outwards,
my white socks begin turning
on the worn, cracked, splintering hardwood floors,
that travel from cabinet to cabinet,
from the sloshing soaping dishwasher to the warmed black stove.
Slowly my eyes trace around the avocado green walls, spotting the washed window, the empty counter, the blank wall, the refrigerator, the stove, and back again.
360 degrees, and faster now, blurring-
green, black and brown,
‘til everything was new, strange.
Closing my eyes tight against it, I keep on.
The centriphical force pulls to ends of my fingers.
“You’ll be sick, and sorry.”
I spin on. Its thrilling.
“You’ll hit something, you’ll hurt yourself.”
I spin faster. Unwilling to listen.
“Julie, stop.”
Air, spinning like the opposite pressures of a young tornado,
taunts, and pushes me on.
She’s right… when my stomach rolls.
Maybe I’d like to stop,
but I remember the decisive words of my fourth grade science teacher:
“The velocity of a body remains constant unless the body is acted upon by an external force.”
Newton’s First Law… I can’t stop.
Strong hands grab my thin arms suddenly.
External force.
The world is still spinning, though I am still- nauseous,
folded over, holding myself together.
I wish I had listened…
But just as the dizziness passes, and I stand back up,
from where I have sunk to the floor,
I immediately forget the ill feeling,
and instead remember my strong, stubborn will.
And I will spin again.





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