I made it halfway through before

I made it halfway through before

my mouth filled with rust,

my own blood, my own salt—

the flavor I'd trained to ignore.

It mixed with sweat and burned.

Coated my tongue.

I couldn't spit it clear.

I used to run through this,

kept going because the body

knows what the body wants.

The burning lungs.

The copper bloom.

Now I stop.

Now I walk.

The metallic sitting in the back

of my throat

like a small animal refusing to leave,

reminding me I'm made of

salt and iron,

reminding me

that the body keeps score,

that the body remembers

what the mind wants to forget.