The finish line is the goal.
Runners strap on shoes, push their bodies, train for months.
Do it well. Do it faster. Faster than the others.
Laps around the track, tires squealing, pit stops along the way.
Checkerboad flags, shake the champagne.
Biking stages, climb the hills, pass the others, wear the gold jersey.
You got there first.
But I do not want the finish line.
I do not want to get there first.
I am dragging my feet.
Digging in my heels.
Don’t make me go.
I’m fighting, crawling, resisting, doing everything I can.
Make the time slow down,
Make the days longer,
Make the end out of my sight.
I don’t want to be the first to the finish line.
I want to be last.
This time, losing would be winning.