“First call four-hundred meter,”
The loud speaker blares overhead.
Butterflies flitter in my stomach,
A wave of fear cascades on the shores
Of my brain, as I nervously
Lace up my track spikes.

“Final call four-hundred meter,
Runners, please make your way to the track.”
Good lucks bounce
Unappreciated and unreturned through the still air.
With the starting blocks I walk into battle
Like a soldier with his gun.

“On your marks.”
Inch by inch,
I move myself into the starting position.
Earth quakes in my lane,
My whole body shakes
My thoughts echo my coach’s reminders:
“Load your heels.”
“Shoulders over hands.”
“Butt up.”

“Get Set.”
The starter raises his gun,
Slowly.
Rubber daggers pierce my hands.
My fingers ache from the pressure of my body.
Like a flood,
Negative thoughts pour into my mind.
“What if I lose?”
“I can’t come in last.”
“What if he beats me?”
“Why do I even do track?”

“GO!”