Achilles tendinopathy

 
I didn't flinch as the doctor sprayed  
that ice-cold epoxy shit  
on my foot and ankle,
and then  
taped the inflamed  
tendons  
in place  
 
again.
 
He asked my pain level  
on a scale of 10.  
 
Maybe a 2?  
It's not that bad.  
It's not really a big deal.  
It's fine.  
Fucking fine.
 
He laughed and said athletes  
felt pain differently.  
 
Said to take it easy.  
For a while.
 
He said to take it easy.
So I ran that day until the epoxy  
was shellacked on my heel.
Ran until the glue  
gummed to my socks  
and got that dirty-ratty residue  
on my pant legs.
 
Ran until  
I couldn't  
feel  
a  
thing,  
let alone a thought.  
 
Maybe I don't feel pain  
the same way anymore,  
but I sure as fuck became  
more sensitive to the cold.  
 
The first wave of winter,  
that first sweet exhale of icy wind  
feels clean,  
but then  
it cuts into your bones like  
you've never been warm.
 
And I ran in winter,
fucking ran my ass off  
not feeling the pain
while cursing the cold
 
when the wind cut the skin  
under my eyes and it bled,
and my insides ached liked  
I'd been beaten with a  
wooden beam,
until shivering was an  
act of violence.  
 
And all this to say:  
You know.  
Unless I misunderstood.  
 
You know how I feel
 
about the cold
and the pain  
and the concept  
of a crippling  
weakness consuming  
my labored breath;
 
about being hobbled.  
 
You know things like...  
You eat an elephant  
one bite at a time.  
But you stab it first,
to make sure it's dead,
which is an absurd  
comparative except...  
 
I'm prone to stab.
To run.  
To go until  
I can't feel  
it anymore.  
 
But you know.
You know.
 
I always chase  
the setting sun,
and as my Achille’s flares  
I peel back my  
wind-burned skin  
and lean into  
a warm southern breeze.
 
There is salt in the air.
 
I pause and strip off the tape;
 
I rip off the shit that holds
everything in place,  
and flick it off my finger  
like something noxious  
 
and limp slowly to  
your warming shore.