To the fatty running on the track this afternoon

To the fatty running on the track this afternoon:

You, whose feet barely lift off the ground as you trudge around
the track. You, who keeps to the outside lane, footslogging in
the wrong direction. You, who stops for water breaks every lap,
and who would probably stop twice a lap if there were bleachers
on both sides. You, whose gaze drops to your feet every time we
pass. You, whose meat drenches your body after you leave,
completing only a single, 20~minute mile.

There’s something you should know: You fucking rock.

Every shallow step you take, you carry the weight of more than
two of me, clinging to your bones, begging to be shaken off.

Each lap you run, you're paying off the debt of another midnight
snack, another dessert, another beer. It's 20 degrees outside,
but you haven't let that stop your regimen. This isn't your first
day out here, and it certainly won’t be your last. You've started a
journey that lasts a lifetime, and you've started it at least 12
days before your New Years resolution kicks in.

You run without music, and I can only imagine the mantras
running through your mind as you heave your ever-shrinking
mass around the next lap. Let’s go, feet. Shut up, legs. F*"k off,
fat. “If you’d only look up from your feet the next time we pass,
you'd see my gaze has no condescension in it.

I have nothing but respect for you. You've got this.