Blood. Sweat and wind.
My right hand is burning, and I'm too cold.

Muscles in my legs, in my arms, in my eyes. The calluses on my palms.
The marks of the sport, parts of myself I volunteered as offering;
Rewarded and penalized with their changes.

The sound of flesh on rubber, the ray of a blue blur--
The concrete wall. 

Discontent and stress.
For now they hiss with the air as the blue cuts through it.
Hiss and sizzle and evaporate with my perspiration. 

But they'll break through. One day.
I'll break through, one day.

With my legs, arms, eyes. Palms.
The parts of myself marked with cuts, bruises, scars. Time.

With them I'll break the walls in my way.