The smell of hot rubber still turns my stomach,

twists it up in knots and sends my heart racing, racing round a track with stadium lights beaming and a fear in my gut that is insatiable. 

There is a man with such a countenance I wake from dreams wanting to run. That smell of hot rubber chasing at my heels.

An ice cube gripped in my hand, the cold burn, the numbness, the wet dripping down my arm, all in favor of the mantra-

It won’t last, keep going. 

What I used to love about running, that 100 meter sprint, was the freedom it bestowed upon me. The feeling of flight such speed could award. The victories so sweet I could suffer the ache of my calcifying muscles, the heavy heaving of my lungs.

But those losses, those are remembered to the finest points. 

Hot rubber, and glowering looks, sunburnt skin, and screaming shins.

It won’t last, keep going.

My practices began to dwindle, hidden away in locker bathrooms, or under bleachers, the crawling sense of not good enough, not good enough, not good enough itching under my skin.

I hated it by the end, I hated his face and the too-tight feel of my shoes, and that smell-

Hot rubber still turns my stomach.