The Internal Mechanic

I am running past the warehouses at dawn

trying to outpace the person I’ve become.

My lungs are two paper bags catching fire

and the chain-link fence is the only thing

keeping me upright in the gravel.

There it is—the metallic bloom at the back,

a copper penny melting under the tongue.

It’s the taste of the engine redlining,

the biological cost of trying to restart

a heart that has been idling for years.

I spit into the dirt and watch the dust settle.

The iron is sharp, a reminder of the frame

that carries me through the grocery aisles

and the long, quiet shifts where I forget

that I am made of more than just debt.