Iron

The bike doesn't care that I bit the inside of my cheek.

My legs don't care. The road doesn't care.

Only my mouth knows—that copper, that small betrayal

of the gums, blood pooling under my tongue.

I keep pedaling. The taste gets worse.

I keep pedaling. The taste gets real.

Iron mixed with sweat, that's what I'm tasting now,

that's what it takes for my body to finally say stop,

to finally override the part of me

that thought I could push through anything,

that thought the mind was stronger than the meat,

that thought I could just keep going.

The blood tastes like proof

that I'm made of things that break.

I pull over. I spit. The street is still here.

The sun is still here. My body is still here,

telling me things my brain

doesn't want to hear.