Mile Four

Mile four and something gave way.

Not painfully at first that day.

Just a taste. Copper and salt.

The flavor of your body's fault.

I kept running. Didn't stop.

The blood mixed with sweat—drop by drop.

I tasted the evidence of the line

I was crossing, the cost of pushing mine.

My body was telling me to quit.

My mouth was the messenger of it.

Blood and warning in every breath—

here's what it tastes like to test with death.

But I kept going. I pushed through.

Because stopping would mean I knew

that the body was stronger than will,

that I wasn't strong, wasn't steel.

So I ran through the taste of me.

Ran through the warning. Ran to be free.

Ran through the message my body sent

in the language of copper—what the limit meant.