I haven’t been upright
in months. I feel
only head shots and body blows.
No blood in my liver, my limbs
cold and stiff with coagulate,
certainly none to be spared for anyone else.
Opening my eyes
through the spray of little cuts
on my face is too hard.
Each one’s a distraction
I can’t manage to disregard
while trying to get up or at least
trying to try for that.
I’m not much to look at either,
and forget being loved; no one loves
a slab of meat, soft marble chunk of
red and white, shaking tub
of bad decisions lying puddled on the mat.
Ground and pound it is for a wrap:
take it, fake it, don’t cave, don’t tap.
But it’s working. No denial here. Working
like a charm. No knockout blow
in this lifetime. From outside
it may look like I’m sleeping,
but from ringside you can’t know how
the roaring of my heart at my failure
keeps me awake for now.