My fists belong in walls
knuckles cracked and bleeding.
Exposed bone tainted by pumping veins
recklessly repairing pieces of me
that were damaged intentionally.

My mind desires to be in the thick.
Adrenaline whispers rumors of enemies
that are about to pounce and penetrate
my defenses. Fight or flight against
chemical deceit and figments of an
injured mind and broken instinct.

Reason wrestles a flush of chemicals
grappling with phantoms for dominance,
controlled breathing and meditation
only makes me think of shooting.
I want to be left alone, like a hermit
with some cold lie of peace.

My non-violent solution is
damage my fists on non-sentient things

twist my weapons in on themselves,
can’t trust me not to be abusive so
I destroy them so as to never be used again,
except to brutalize my own
fucked up mentality.

One thought on “Knuckles

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