Boy, You’re a Runner Now
It was the first time I’d ever pointed at myself and claimed “boy,” even jokingly.
American BoyfriendCross my heart / Let me be / Tripped in the dark / You found me
And boy, I’ll be back when you’re lonely / If you want me to
When you wanna let go / When you wanna let go / When you wanna move onWhy you gotta let go? / Why you gotta let go? / Why you gotta move on?you
Now, on the days I don’t work the closing shift at my “paying the rent” job, I come home, say hi to my partner and my cats and my dog, change, and run. My regular run is a two-, sometimes three-mile box around my neighborhood. My nose always starts to run and I’ll often start tearing up, leaving my face glistening with a luscious combination of bodily fluids. When I cross the threshold of my apartment, I sometimes feel as though my lungs are ripping apart at the seams, and I never feel more honored and lucky to have my body, and I never feel more alive.
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The back was nothing but a web of elastic straps, and the front wasn’t low-cut as much as it was nonexistent.