Body in Conversation

After the run, my muscles compose a song,

cramping and singing of limits I’ve pushed,

a dialogue etched in fatigue, feels so wrong,

but there’s pride in the ache, in every rush.

I wince as I reach, each movement a dance,

like a stubborn child refusing to yield,

protesting through aches, yet finding a chance,

as my body converses with each scar revealed.

The pulse of my heart, a drum beating strong,

it echoes the effort that lingers like smoke,

where pain wears a crown, but still feels like song,

it whispers of battles, a story bespoke.

In the aftermath's quiet, I breathe in the weight,

these threads of resistance weave strength into me,

my body, a canvas, adorned with its fate,

as it speaks of the journey, of what I can be.