My hand is bleeding, my skin is torn. I can't stop. Hit it.
Again. Again.
The bark is rough and unmoving. I hear my knuckle crack.
Again. Again. Again.
The bark cracks, pieces are flying. A piece cuts my face.
Again. Again.
I finally stop and look at my hands. Battered. Bloody. Bruised. The blood drips down my fingers as they fall to my side. I laugh. I laugh at my mistakes, my reasons to be. And I smile. I breathe.
Again.
