Her feet will hammer on the starlit tarmac road,
The breath in white and puffy clouds,
Her ponytail is swinging, a happy kind of beat,
But really there is seething there,
A burning hot desire to hurt, to dig in nails,
To tear at skin and let out sound.
It’s something primal, pumping up with every step,
The thump of blood that rushes through her ears
And tells her that this run will save her life.
The running’s not for fun, not to ease out gentle stress;
It is to strangle out the worst of her,
The painful spikes that festered for so long.
I think I’ve written about this before, but it plays on my mind so much that it deserves being written about over and over. I should probably write a book about it because it eats me up and quite literally hurts me.
I’m a runner. Not a great one, but a runner nonetheless. However, I find that every time I run, I get too angry to even breathe. I’m not even an angry person, but it seems to pour out of me when I’m running. It even makes me sometimes think I should stop. Why would I want to carry on something that literally makes me cry and feel like I can’t breathe.
Am I the only person in the world that loves something that causes me that much pain? Am I sick? Should I just give up? I’m exhausted, but I kind of crave that outpouring.