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.
I haven't had the chance to hang out with many friends since I have been on winter break, so all I have been doing is writing some mediocre poetry. This one was inspired from more of a darker place, that I seldom talk about.