The Fighter

The Fighter

You haven’t earned my blood,

and so I refuse to give it to you.

Like boxers, we both post up in our corners,

adrenaline pumping,

each muscle humming

a reminder of its presence. At least,

they do for me.

To confront you, finally,

in this arena

is a fight I accredit

to 1. delayed gratification

and 2. pure fury.

You bask in privilege,

in anonymity,

in bureaucracy thrown in my face

like red ticker tape.

Each time a blow connects with my face,

I think of childhood and yellow dandelions.

I see the glow-in-the-dark stars

on my old bedroom ceiling.

I try to grasp the audacity you have

when my redhot cheeks,

juggernauts,

meet the cool, cushioned floor.

I don’t hide how I’ve had to claw to you

to get you held accountable.

Ive learned anger makes me productive,

so I let the blood pour into my mouth;

I taste its iron and its warmth,

like Miami summers.

I snarl, hoping it has seeped

into the cracks between my teeth,

making me look more intimidating.

I have spent months anticipating

the challenges you’ve presented me,

preparing myself for visions of black pupils

in a prophetic sort of way.

I am lucid.

I am fastidious,

while you’ve always been clouded

in red haze.

We circle each other.

You told me you were the devil

when I asked that night why you hurt me.

Now I laugh, emboldened

because it’s not you—

it’s me.