• There’s a side splitting pain up my leg.

    A numbness coming to my arms due to lack of oxygen

    In aggravation, I get off the treadmill and begin to exit the garage, knowing that if I wasn’t so vulnerable to pain, I could’ve done it.

    I let out a frustrated groan, setting my things at the end of the staircase before I head back to retrieve my sweats.

    I enter the garage and, without thinking, I head out and run

    I’m the slowest girl on the team, so I run,


    In other words,
    There’s a problem, I run


    I’m heading out, feet against pavement. I’m not even thinking, I just do.

    There’s both a stiffening within my ankles and my ankles and my chest, but my chest is the one that’s holding me back the most.

    Is it my asthma again? I know I can keep going though, I know I can try… My mind begins to wonder, where is my inhaler? I can never remember, my flare ups are as rare as a fast snail, so I say. But it’s the stress that’s causing this. The metal hardships of running, to tell yourself to keep going when you want so badly to stop, on top of any other problems to may have. But I can’t stop, so I shove those thoughts aside. My problems mean nothing to me.

    I turn a corner to find the wind pushing me into the other direction, against me. Why people enjoy running, I’ll never be sure.

    “******** you,” I want to say to the wind, but it won’t make a difference. It’ll still keep going, and it’ll still keep pushing me further. At this point, like most points when I’ve physically gone this far and want to stop, but stopping is giving up, and giving up too early will cause complaints to arise from my own self.


    “You’re such a child,”


    The words echo through my head as I pick up speed. I’m no child. I can be mature when I want to be. And what’s so wrong with being a child? It has its perks.

    It doesn’t matter who you are, we’re all children.

    Some complain too much. Others demand attention. We enjoy doing our things our own way and can get disrupted when it doesn’t.

    We also want to be heard. I’ll admit to that, if only to the pavement and no one else.

    There’s people I can talk to, yes. But I know that it’s not just any person I want, to listen to me. The specifics, though, will continue to be shuffled in my thoughts, habituals and actions, being too stubborn to be straightforward with what’s really bothering me, unlike everything else about me.

    So, I guess, I’ll continue being a child

    The problems fill my head again, of parents, of friends, of my body.

    Even though its a habit I must break, I’m still being selfish by forcing my body to go faster with every step, despite the throbbing pain in my legs.

    I make it home, and if I’ve decided one thing, I’ve decided that I must deal with my problems instead of running away and I’ll let go, no matter who listens or not.