7 of 10

sweat-soaked then sun-dried
hair clings to my face
like seaweed to the dock at low tide.
reaching to pluck plastered tendrils
my fingers come away salty.
sweat, dust, sunlight -
my stinging eyes would tear
if my body had salt & water to spare.
that blister that formed at mile 3
and exploded at mile 5
has been replaced by its brother
in the exact location.
my tongue, useless as a salted garden slug,
cannot erase the pencil thin line of dust
that marks my teeth at the point
where my lips stick to the arid enamel.
it is mile 7 of 10, and i will not "finish"
because i will finish STRONG.
i am a runner.