She wobbles slightly, perched upon her
thin, taught rope.
She prays desperately that she does not fall
does not break.
She has perched up there her whole life, once
hopeful and excited to be
a part of the show, but
She has long since grown weary
of trying not to fall off.
She is sick of the spectacle, sick of perching
on that worn rope.
She misses the pole she once held, that blessed protection
against the wind, rain, and storms,
but it has long since rotted away, as sick of the cruel game
as she was.
She wonders, looking down, down, down
to the jagged rocks below, if it would be easier to just
fall off.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and
lets go
She is no longer a tightrope walker but a
skydiver
She smiles blissfully for the first time as she tries out
her new hobby.