Finish line

I run when it’s too hot,    
and I don’t take water,  
to see how fucking  
far I can get before    
my brain blacks out    
and my heart explodes.  
   
Just to prove to myself    
I still have one.  
   
I’m not sure anymore.    
   
There’s something    
really broken in me,    
and I crave the    
physical pain    
of pushing too far.    
   
Some days,    
the steadfast lull    
of one-foot-in-front    
of the other    
is the only time    
I’m sure    
I’m here.    
   
I run to test fate,    
to cheat God,    
and clear my head    
for a few hours.    
 
I run to stop    
the screaming.    
   
The sink-to-my-knees  
face-to-the-wall,    
hands-covering-ears  
screaming    
whyfucknohowstopitcantbelikethisIcantdoitanymore  
that    
echoes behind my    
untroubled fakeface  
   
every minute    
every minute    
of every day.    
   
I run.    
I run far distances,  
too far for mortals,  
until my skin sloughs,    
and my toenails fall off.    
   
I run until the chafing    
of the seam of my    
sweat-soaked sports bra    
after 10,  
after 20,    
after 30    
fucking    
miles    
mutes    
the internal  
keening.    
   
Because I can ice down    
my shaking muscles,    
and throw some KT tape    
on my aching joints;    
I can rub a little icy hot in    
my tendons
    
and it’ll stop hurting eventually.    
It always does.    
it always does.    
   
I run because    
they don’t make    
KT tape for the mind.  
   
They don’t make    
ice packs for my    
swollen    
soul.