The bruising on these knuckles,
Black and blue and red from punching
Walls and metal poles are paltry in comparison to the ulcers on this heart,
Pommeled and pounded by uncaring feet that stomped relentlessly,
Swearing all the while that the hurt endured was for its benefit,
because it could have been worse, supposedly,
it could have been stabbed by a slap that said
“it’s more exciting that he’s touched down,
so I’ll go out on the town with him instead and just put in your head I’ve gone early to bed.”

The bones in my hands are starting to fracture,
Imagining the solid things are the face of that bastard,
The anger expounded at the expense of the peril of health,
of my strength,
but it never relents, the pain of rejection
not replaced in fury’s attempts,
And the cracking of each calcified digit
Resounds in my spirit
But the pain’s never shifted,
Migrated or merged,
Just two strains of hurt and a foot in the dirt.


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