I’ve punched up. I’ve punched back. I keep
punching though every blow busts my hands a bit more.
I don’t much care about direction. All I feel
is a need to punch. Swinging is
patriotic. Connecting is manly. Walking away
to seek a new battle is as natural to me
as a storm disappearing after shredding
everything, heading off to look for work elsewhere,
as staying home to rebuild is work best left
to those who won’t punch hard enough
to level a field that needs clearing. I level up.
My home’s a bad place now; no one’s willing
to do dirty work. Dirty wet work is how
I have become what I am: alone. Advancing
toward the next battlefield, then the next.
Making my way away from what I thought was home.