So I Ask You

So I ask you,

does it matter how good your corner man is

if you step in the ring

with your hands tied behind your back?

 

I showed up,

love-struck and laced in loyalty,

with every heartbeat shouting your name

like a crowd that never stopped believing.

You were the fight worth bruises.

But I entered armless.

 

You had your guard up,

smiling while jabbing,

dodging softness

as though it scorched.

 

And me?

 

I stood there

and offered my jaw to your silences,

and my ribs to the distance you called freedom.

 

But I had a solid corner:

Hope whispering in one ear,

Patience inhabiting the other,

and Love.

Love wiped my wounds with trembling hands,

saying, “Next round, perhaps—they’ll finally see you.”

 

But every round felt like

me swinging with my eyes,

and the only things I had on were

no fists,

no defense—

just open-hearted,

bound by the rope of too much.

 

So I ask you again,

in this game of give and guard,

does it matter

how loud they cheer for you

when you’re fighting

someone

who won’t fight with you?

 

And maybe,

just maybe,

the real knockout

is staying down

when all you wanted

was to finally be deemed

worthy of the gloves.

The Pen That Never Runs Dry

Sip & Support