ShitKickers
I learned my bodyβs weak places from the way the world found them Each blow was a question asked without waiting for an answer
The ground rose up to meet me cold, familiar, almost kind It didnβt pretend this was anything other than what it was
Time broke in pieces a flash of knuckles the sound of breath leaving me like it had somewhere better to be
Pain became a language spoken fluently by my ribs by my jaw humming with shock by my hands curled uselessly around nothing
What hurt most wasnβt the fists but how small I suddenly felt reduced to a thing that could be folded tested, discarded
When it ended they walked away carrying my name in their knuckles and I stayed behind counting myself to make sure I was still there
Even now my shadow flinches before I do and silence can feel like footsteps proof that some fights keep happening long after no one is swinging
