Down with leg constrictors

I can tell by the fit of my pants:
this was not a mistake.
Thighs like Thor hammer the pavement
into bronze medals of miles achieved.
They do not quake with desire.
Thunderous is the rip and shred of denim:
in shaping them, they shape you.
Seams impossible to contain, I know.
This is why I like wearing shorts.
They carry the burden of this heavy heart,
dragging if only to keep the forward momentum going:
screaming through the lactic pain
and numbing ice, always in search
of that runner's high.
Sometimes it's easier to just smoke weed first.
Too many rest days.
I can tell by the fit of my pants
and the hitch in my lungs as I try to push through.
This is why I like wearing shorts.