I bloodied my fist today because of my rage. I thought I was mad at the kids at first, I cursed their names as I uncontrollably punched the cold mud. It wasn’t until later I realized I was angry at you.
You hurt me every time you are near, every time I hear your voice. Your words sting, your insults constantly fly. You claim you joke, you claim I misunderstand, but I am hurt by both what you say and how you treat me, by both your words and what lies between them.
I first looked down at my bloody fist with embarrassment and shame. The same shame I have when I look upon the blood I draw from my own forearms. But as I look back upon it only two days later I see power, power and strength in my bloody fists. I stand tall, chest out, shoulders wide with a calm look of “bring it” on my face. I am not someone to be fucked with. I am power. I am strength. I am perseverance.
I could crush you with this bloody fist, I could rip you apart with this bloody fist. I could make you cry with this bloody fist. I could make you question who you are with this bloody fist. I could make you ashamed to be who you are with this bloody fist. I could make you hurt for years with this bloody fist, the same way you have made me hurt for years.
I may have all this power, all this strength and all the reasons in the world to take a swing at you with this bloody fist, but I won’t. I won’t use this power to break you. No, instead I will stick out my bloody fist and I’ll grab your hand. I will pull you up with my bloody fist so you can stand. I’ll teach you with my bloody fist how to apologize. I’ll teach you with my bloody fist how to treat me right, how to talk to me like a person. I’ll teach you how to keep me in your life.
Or maybe I won’t. Maybe you won’t take my bloody fist, maybe you won’t listen to my words and my pleas to treat me right. Maybe you’ll just insist they really are just jokes. Maybe you’ll insisted they really are just misunderstandings.
I may have all this power, all this strength and all the reasons in the world to take a swing at you with this bloody fist, but I won’t. I won’t use this power to break you. I’ll leave you be. I think that is punishment enough. To spend years building someone up, tearing someone down, loving them despite all the hurt you cause them. To mold a human and have them grow up to despise you, to renounce you, to leave you.