And that's the bell.byWillow Rain©
It’s an ugly fight
and I shouldn’t even be in the ring.
My life isn’t stable and grounded.
After a year of rapid change and growth,
I have no balance, endurance,
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
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,
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,
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
who I am.
My voice loud,
my words are harmful.
I strike with my own harsh names
This isn’t good for him either.
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
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
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,
My opponent shouts more words
violently out from the ring.
I lift a weary hand
and delete them from my mailbox.