I was seventeen,  
when I realized  
I wasn’t beautiful  
in the clothes I wore.  
At the arriving end  
of December–  
before my eighteenth birthday  
I began my sweaty resolution.
It became a song  
forcefully, put on loop
playing again, and again–  
and again.  
I counted units
of food energy  
like beats  
in a measure of time,  
keeping practice logs  
for when I could
eat.
My metronome  
for living,  
was kept in time  
by the syncopated,  
rhythmic beats  
of my breaths
as my feet sped
long into nights  
on machinery  
that went–  
                 nowhere.
Running,
the same line
of track
over, and over.