Poetry · Writing

six, seven, eight

battered ribs

shattered nose

rattling skull

the taste of blood melted plastic,

the only good thing

is the cool canvas brushing my right cheek like my mothers palm.

i want to stay here,

staring eyes like a night sky

all so, obstreperous

for frame of reference;

like the first round, no faces

no names just eyes, flashes,

hazy-

than a meteor crashed into my skull

twice

and

i

still see those stars

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