My muscles are sore.  It’s marvelous.  I can feel the cilia of my lungs.  There’s a cathedral in my torso.  A temple of arteries, organs, and blood.  The hum of nerves.  My legs protest just above the knees.  The rapturous miracle of endorphins.

Sometimes my panic names me.  Holds me to the mat, and won’t release me, even after I’ve tapped out.  Enough, I plead.  Enough.  And still, I’m pinned.  Held down until I stop struggling.

Sometimes my head isn’t a safe place to be.

And I forget that I can be entirely my body.  I can run.  Fill my lungs until they burn.  Cycle up the hill, and let my hip bitch the whole way.  A symphony of complaints while the sun peaks and ducks and reminds us that everything is temporary.  Our thoughts are just thoughts.  Our aches, our worries, the mild January days, are fleeting.

So I’m pinned for a while.  I’ll climb slowly back up, wipe my mouth, raise my head.  I’ll own myself.

I’ll name myself.

I’ll break and mend.