Te the fatty running on the trade. this afternnon:
You, whise feet barely lift off the gree as vee trudge aree the track-
You, whe keeps tn the m Bide lane, in the wrang direction_
You, who stops fer water breaks every lap, and we weild proboably stop
twice a lap If there were bleachers en we sides. You, 1. -vhere gaze drops
tn veer feet even; time we pass. You, Mime sweat drenches veer hem
after vee leave, completing only a single, germinate mile.
There' s something we sh eead knew: ‘fee fucking reek.
Every shallow step we take, we carer the weight w mere than two of
me, clinging to veer bones, begging to be shaken off. Each lap we me,
were paving off the debt m another midnight snack, another dessert,
another beer, It' s 20 degrees outside, but we havent let that stop wer
regimen. This isn' t wer first day out here, and it certainly went be veer
last. The he started a journey that lasts a lifetime, and we' started at
least 12 days before wer New Year' s resolution kicks in.
We me without mesh; and I can only Imagine the mantras running
through veer mind as we heave veer everyth rin king mass amend the
next lap, Let' s go, feet, Shut up, legs. Fuck eff, fat. If we' d only leek up
hem veer feet the next lime we pass, we' d see my gaze has no
condescension in it
I have nething but respect fer we. "we' got this.
El, and feathers% t