running poem

Push.
Rhythmic pounding, rhythmic breathing.
She loses it all in the rhythm, pores pushing
all the fear out of her body.
Push beyond the pain, the twitching
muscle in her left ankle screaming in protest.
Pain is beauty, beauty is pain
Run for peace, run for security
She can’t decide if she is running away from the present
or running to the future
Maybe running to cleanse,
the rain begins in tiny droplets and soon
the t-shirt sticks and her ponytail
slaps her back and her nose drips.
She licks her lips and tastes salt.
She screams with her burning muscles, she cries with the sky.
Pain is real. Rain is real. She is not real, she is an echo of what was.
She is slippery, she is slick, she is nothingness.
She is producing carbon dioxide and sweat and pain,
so much pain.