With Your Heavy Fists

Pull the words out
from behind my eyes;
they’re saltstained
and tearfresh.

Every time
he looks to his right,
there is
bittenback fury —

he’s so tired
of hearing the same thing

over and and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over again.

This isn’t the same
as it was before;

things never are.

I can have the taste
on my tongue
but it doesn’t bring back
ten whole years ago,
no matter how much
I want it to.

It doesn’t bring back
all that I desire,

especially because that’s all twined up
with so much that I have to let go of,
lest it drown me,
hold me under
with heavy black paws,
and all the things
I can’t say,

because you think anyone else
who is sad
and dares to show it
without baring their teeth in fury
is weak and worthless,
and everyone who knows you
can see that
in your eyes.

For once,
I wish you would wound me
with your
heavy fists,
instead of
your sharp words.

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