And that's the bell.

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It’s an ugly fight
and I shouldn’t even be in the ring.
I’m weak.
My life isn’t stable and grounded.
After a year of rapid change and growth,
I have no balance, endurance,
or strength.

I bring my hands up anyway
trying to be there,
braving the ring.
I tell myself I can do this,
I can be there for him,
but he doesn’t fight fair.
It’s street rules.
The contact is solid and
black orbs bloom at the edges of my vision.
My head snaps back
as I’m attacked.

He’s angry, with me,
because that is easier than being mad at himself.
In rage and hurt
he is reactive
and vengeful,
which is something I have seen before.

I won’t roll over
and yield to what he wants to believe.

He takes my disagreement
as a violent act of refusing to hear him,
but I’m just blocking punches.

He names my true emotions,
and honest sharing,
lies.
He throws names like jabs,
hard into my ribs
until I feel something snap
and nausea blooms.
The taste of blood hits the back of my throat.

There are no rules for him in this fight.
The depth of his inability to know me,
hits so hard,
and direct
that teeth break,
and I gasp and stagger,
leaning forward to take the pain.

Red drops fall to the ground,
in the shapes of valentines.
This isn’t love.
This is violence.

I strike out blind
and in a rage,
at how little
he understands
who I am.
My voice loud,
my words are harmful.
I strike with my own harsh names
insulting him.

This isn’t good for him either.

Staggering,
my vision blurred, I scream out for the bell,
as another blow lifts me high onto my toes.
I’m just not strong enough for this.
I’m going to go down.
It’s going to take me out.
My life can’t bare this.
I have no reserve on which to draw.

A white rag
flutters into the ring.
I’m drug out through the ropes still twisting to try and face
my opponent.
It is hard to abandon him.

I’m told I’m done.
I‘m out of the ring.
My boxing career is over.

As soon as I sit down on the stool
my legs start to violently shake
and I burst into tears.

One eyelid closed almost shut,
Dave turns my face up into the lights.
I see everything through prisms of light,
bright blinding stars.

The new boundaries sting a little
antiseptic,
neat stitches,
logical and kind, even though they come with some pain.

The realization that I won’t be fighting anymore
wraps around me like a blanket of relief.

The tape comes off
and I pull my wrists free of the hot damp gloves.
My hands aren’t those of a fighter.
They are pale and soft,
long fingers intended to
touch others with compassion and love,
not this brutality
I have moved in.

I lean forward
weary and beaten.
My head hangs low and I know I am still crying by the drops falling to the ground.
I can’t feel them.
Love isn’t supposed to hurt.

He’ll rage on in his ring.
He doesn’t care who wins or loses.
He’s just moving in pain.
He’ll hit anyone who enters the ring.
He’s in it for the fight
just wanting to feel something.

I catch my breath.
I’m no fighter.
A warm hand steadies my shoulder,
patiently waiting for me to finish my tears
and do the only thing I can,
walk away.

My opponent shouts more words
violently out from the ring.
I lift a weary hand
and delete them from my mailbox.

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  • COMMENTS
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6 Comments
LeBrozLeBrozabout 16 years ago
██

Wow! Raw, powerful, and gritty metaphorical read. The first impulse is to want this cut down through some careful editing. But don't know that much can be cut without ripping out the soul of this piece. You show so vividly the powerful hurt that words contain.

KOLKOREKOLKOREabout 16 years ago
Srtong and evocative

I love the intensity the directness and the courage you demonstrated in the poem. By now, the talent is a forgone conclusion… I was immediately drawn into the emotional world conveyed both by the extended image and by the strong evocative ‘plain’ language you chose to use otherwise. <P>

My ‘critical’ comments are more or less in a similar venue of the previous comments Even with my two “buts” I am not forgetting that it’s not easy to strike the right balance or always weigh accurately (as if it was a pharmaceutical prescription) how much telling should be inserted or how many more details you wish to add to your image so it would be lively but not collapse from overweight.

First, few times I felt that you came out from the main boxing imagery to explain the image rather than to move on with the poem.

The second point, at times I felt that you were repeating some points which I thought were not adding to the poem at the place you decided to make the repetition. (like emphasizing the fact that you are not made for fightingn)<P>

Still, any perceived imperfections of this poem leave most others way behind.

KOLKOREKOLKOREabout 16 years ago
Srtong and evocative

I love the intensity the directness and the courage you demonstrated in the poem. By now, the talent is a forgone conclusion… I was immediately drawn into the emotional world conveyed both by the extended image and by the strong evocative ‘plain’ language you chose to use otherwise. <P>

My ‘critical’ comments are more or less in a similar venue of the previous comments Even with my two “buts” I am not forgetting that it’s not easy to strike the right balance or always weigh accurately (as if it was a pharmaceutical prescription) how much telling should be inserted or how many more details you wish to add to your image so it would be lively but not collapse from overweight.

First, few times I felt that you came out from the main boxing imagery to explain the image rather than to move on with the poem.

The second point, at times I felt that you were repeating some points which I thought were not adding to the poem at the place you decided to make the repetition. (like emphasizing the fact that you are not made for fightingn)<P>

Still, any perceived imperfections of this poem leave most others way behind.

AnonymousAnonymousabout 16 years ago
TKO

This is very good and much more interesting than many more highly polished poems.It could be exceptional with some editing perhaps. In some places even whole lines might be omitted but you would have to be careful not to lose the raw grittiness. A 90 I reckon so I'll go the 100

UnderYourSpellUnderYourSpellabout 16 years ago
~

I was in there with you feeling each blow each cutting remark and wearing my bruises with pride when I could hold my head up and keep on walking away

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