running

i can’t tell what this is about, this want
for running. yesterday it was seven.
today, ten miles. my knees look like
tomatoes, squishy with the swell.
i have never been able to run that far.
walking down stairs takes twice
as long and both hands on the rails,
a full body endeavor. it started when
i stopped being so sad all the time.
or maybe i’m not so sad all the time
because of this. this self care
is indistinguishable from trying to hurt
just enough—it is harder to feel anything
much when the body is so tired.
the options: joints like vegetables
left too long in the sun & a touch
of seratonin. or body intact, unswollen & too
little want to leave the shower. once
i spent four hours behind the curtain
and only left because my heart beat
felt wrong from all the heat. no towel.
the water made a river to my bed.
the mold started slowly, sheets wet
for days it was like sleeping
inside a dewey corn husk it almost felt good
but not quite. nothing ever quite
felt good. now i am hair damp after
a normal length shower, legs
covered in bags of ice. a roommate finds me,
asks why do you do that to yourself. it is hard
to be honest the only real thing
to say is that it makes the bad thing
into something different. the last winter
storm knocks hard on the front door.
the roommate answers it, walks out
onto the porch in just his boxers. it’s hard
to see him, even so close. he leaves
the porch, down the street with no shoes.
the snow looks like pillows swinging
at his body. i imagine it doesn’t feel
quite so soft. maybe it is the good
kind of hurt. 

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