Tears For You

ii. speaking with fists

you are not a
fighter.

but the way
the world
is so intent on
going against you
made you one.

only seven years old
and constantly being picked on
for being "smaller",
"quieter",
"weirder".

only eleven years old
and being ambushed by
spitballs ;
and although you
moved
to the back of the classroom,
they never stopped
hitting
you.

only thirteen years old
and receiving
"friendly jabs",
that would
eventually leave
bruises
after too many
"friendly jabs" in one area.

only seventeen years old,
now taller and
no longer small,
but you were still
too quiet, i suppose.

but, by the time
you turned seventeen,
you were fed up.

seventeen and cornered.
taunted by upperclassmen.
one too many "friendly jabs".

this was the first time
you ever punched someone.

your hands hurt like hell,
but it was nothing
compared to
the seventeen years of
hell
you had endured.

so you
punched,
got punched,
kicked,
got kicked.

all of you got suspended,
but they never tried
picking on you again.

countless of times,
you said "go away"
with your mouth,
and they never left ;
one time
you said "leave me alone"
with your fists,
and they left you.

and so,
you spoke with your fists —
each wound telling a story,
each bruise telling a tale,
each cut telling a message.

you became a fighter.
(and you wished every day that you weren't one.)