Feet Pounding

I started running in 5th grade. 
I started, I realize now,
In the hopes of finally
Being happy with my body.
I wasn't good, no, no, no.
In fact, I sucked.
I would nitpick the littlest thing about myself,
Feel terrible when I saw another girl whiz by
Light as a feather,
Grinning like she didn't know running was hard.
I just jogged, my feet sore and eyes misty.

6th grade, I came back against the odds, the only one of my friends.
I wrote my name in clumsy cursive 
​On the cross country roster
I don't think I knew I wanted to run again until
I wrote that first letter, finished it off with a curl.
Slowly, running made sense.
At meets, keeping up with the older kids
Made me feel like I was capable.
I felt cool, going afterschool to run
Pushing through pain and branches.
I felt like I was doing something worthwhile,
That I was worth the time the world put into me.

Turns out,
Running is hard.
Maybe that's why I stayed.
Or maybe the pound of my feet made me feel powerful.
Feeling powerful doesn't come easy
To an eleven year old girl who just realized
Life was a game she didn't even know the rules to.
But running, running felt pretty perfect to me.
Nothing is more glorious than a runner's high,
The sun peeking through the clouds,
The wind nipping my heels, spurring me on.

Sometimes, running hurts like nothing I've ever felt elsewhere.
Lungs burning, legs numb, that's just the half of it.
It seeps in, a psychological poison,
Clawing through until all I can feel is desperation to stop,
To walk away, yell until I feel normal again.
I've stopped, more times than I care to admit.
I've turned my back on that pain, but the feeling I get,
Of a part of my heart being missing,
Hurts more than any pain I get from a twisted ankle or a hard run.

You see, 
I like being a runner.
Whatever drug running releases,
Makes me feel so alive. Happy too, and gives me the energy to
Stay passionate about fighting the injustices in this world,
In the face of a Trump presidency, a raging climate crisis,
Classism, racism, and the disgusting disregard for immigrant rights.
I know what my purpose is, and that's exhilirating. 
I've stuck with running for 4 years, and now it's stuck in my identity.

Running is the home I need when the walls get too close,
When I don't have the patience to watch the world go by anymore.
When I feel lazy, confused, or just antsy, I push open the back door,
Pop on my headphones, turn on some pump-up music and sprint
Feet pounding rolling pavement until my mind is still
I run until my surroundings are unfamiliar, a new corner of Burlington to explore,
And then I wind backwards, relishing the wind and the strength
That I can feel coursing through me like blood and adrenaline.

As I grow wiser, or at least slow down my thoughts,
I realize I find homes in pockets of time.
A beautiful sunset, returning home after a run, laughter with friends.
Getting lost in a book, beautiful eyes, or the sky over your head, 
These are the places where I find homes I choose for myself. 
They might not have four walls and a roof,
But they make my life as perfectly bittersweet

As a long run in the rain.