People are cruel 
they play games 
but not like 
children often do 
childhood games are
plump with innocence 
and of adventure 
they take along 
never leave behind 
ever anything really 
especially their toys
stop blaming innocents 
for your inability 
to be adults 

It seems I
spend more time 
in the corner 
not of room
but of ring
gathering myself together 
taking some time 
to reassess things 
listening to advice 
from my coaches 
not so much 
as to survive 
but to win
the next round 
for rounds are
how one wins 
the whole shebang
be it life
be it love 
be it boxing 

Why oh why 
do the bruises 
keep showing up 
I hide them 
with a concealer 
but someone always 
knows exactly where 
to poke me 
why does this 
heart always bleed
on my outside 
where everyone else 
can always see 
maybe one day 
someone maybe will 
find these bruises 
of mine attractive 

I dislike firsts
first anything really 
I prefer weathered
worn and comfy
cozy and kind 
the firsts of 
things are too
new to know 
or to keep 
firsts are fleeting 
whereas I prefer 
the flawed kind 

When the winds
of life change 
from icy chill
to cooling breeze
from huddling cuddles 
to languid lounging 
so does the 
expression of same 
one causes retreat 
the other welcome 
and like a 
vise of vices
I am pinched
between my exile 
and my desire 
squeezed by isolation 
then by arms
and the juice 
of me stored
or maybe swallowed