Sweat and Silence

The damp shirt clings like a second skin,

clumped at the nape, soaked through

where breath catches and muscle burns.

Iron tang thick in the air,

a stale underarm scent mixed with raw effort,

the smell of pushing too far and still moving.

Each bead a small war,

falling heavy, betraying every step,

every breath ragged, chasing the next.

And in the silence afterward,

a quiet soaked deep in salt and failure,

not cleansing but marking the skin

with the truth of what didn’t wash away.