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poetry

A Day in the Life

I’ve taken up the wonderful art of kickboxing, much to the dismay of many people I know. I live very intensely, and as a result, I have returned home with knuckles skinned and busted more times than I can […]

Every morning I put on my scars

Just to get yelled at for still having them

Every night I pull at my hair

I shaved my head to break the habit

And feel my nails

Short for scars

Dig into my scalp

I tattoo my arm

And scrub at it in the shower until my arm turns red

Because I don’t need another person asking, “what’s that”

Every morning I wake up and cry

Because I watched someone die in my dreams

And since they’re made of paper others don’t understand

But the sun hits differently when it’s reflecting off my tears

I say goodbye to my little night thoughts

And birds

I sit through another day of orchestration

Composing my life symphony and desperately hoping I can share it with you

At twelve I go out to draw new scars on my knuckles

And come inside only to have others turn away

I’ve been told more times than I can count to “go easy”

But I bleed to know I am human

I feel pain to know I am alive

I watch my hands shake and redden and swell

Just to see them differently from my vampire body

I scream at the punching bag

Use my anger to destroy its sharp leather

Dance with kicks and hooks and jabs

Fly for five minutes

Then the song changes

I go inside

Every night, I bandage my scars

Hide them from the people in my head

And wait to draw them again

So I can get yelled at in the morning

***

I’ve taken up the wonderful art of kickboxing, much to the dismay of many people I know. I live very intensely, and as a result, I have returned home with knuckles skinned and busted more times than I can count. There’s a vigor to kickboxing, a vitality you cannot receive unless faced in a life or death situation. While I am very much an amateur, I wish to continue the sport until my hands break or I lose interest, whichever comes sooner. Needless to say, those around me hardly agree with that sentiment and usually worry about the new blood. If you favor a warped sense of humor, you will understand my delight when I see others pale at the sight of my freshly-wounded fist. Take up the activity, my friends. It is good for the body, for the mind, and for the soul.

By griffalice

A poet, an artist, and an explorer.

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