Brakes

I could outrun them, if I were fast enough.

They're so fast that unless I really run
they catch up with me
the moment I turn the corner, and pile back on

(this one with the claws in my shoulder is what I feel is expected of me, and
this too-tight-hug of massive arms around my chest is my asthma, and
this little guy with the suckers attaches itself to the roof of my mouth and whispers the names of the people I've had to leave behind, and)

But

if I were fast enough

I could outrun them, and I know I could because
I can outrun my wheezing lungs for fifty metres of air-light sprinting
leave my problems and my frustrations and my breathlessness for dust
just muscle on the pavement and the wind in my streaming eyes

my tiredness catches me first, but I know that she's the fastest and she's not so heavy
and it's round the corner, she and I in the lead but the pack is closing, and still I know
my depression's still finding his legs and
my fear hasn't even gotten started

Bam Bam Bam
feet slamming into concrete
juddering my lungs into submission, and here comes the front-runner in the trailing pack,
asthma
slamming into me hard and pulling me back
and then I have to slow down
to take a breath
and stop

and they all catch me and it feels like I've tripped the way you used to when you were a child, where you catch one foot with the other and go down in a spinning tangle of ungainly limbs.
They pile back on.
Hey guys.

And I know
it's a stupid thing to sprint
I know
it's a stupid thing to dance every dance until the small hours of the morning
I know
it's a stupid thing to sing every song along with the radio until my voice comes out as a
squeak

But I do it anyway
even though I can't be fast enough
because when I pace myself
they never lose their grip