Mile two

Mile two.

The pavement rises.

My mouth fills with copper,

with salt and with rust,

the taste of my body

broken and bust.

My gums bleed

when I push too hard.

My body keeps guard.

I could stop,

could walk it away,

could make it all okay,

could rinse and forget.

But I don't.

The blood tastes like proof

that I can still choose

to hurt myself on purpose,

that I still have a say

in the price that I'll pay.

Mile three comes.

The taste stays.

I swallow it down.

Salt and iron—

they're proof I'm still here,

proof I can break

what I hold most dear.