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.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 12:23 AM UTC
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.