broken knuckles
boxers fracture, black knuckles, and broken teeth
waking up in the morning is torture
because your knuckles have to be
cracked,
twisted,
popped,
a thread away from broken,
otherwise they’re too stiff and awkward to move
and just moving them makes them creak and groan like old wood,
that’s been left out in the elements and is nearing the end of bearing the strain on it.
and after a while–
you learn how to tell the weather based on how bad they ache
dull and throbbing is a rainy day
sharp and stabbing is cold weather to bundle up in,
and when people shake your hands,
all they notice is the black and blue of your knuckles.
holding onto your grip awkwardly because it’s a mess of
crooked bones and fused joints and scars
and they never ask what happened.
but you can see the question on the tip of their tongues,
all that you can do is just flex your fingers to make them feel, and not be so damn numb.
and you listen to them crack and pop again,
and you smile and hope they don’t notice,
that your teeth are chipped and your nose is just as crooked as your hands.
a lifetime of brawling and fighting.
an asphalt warrior with gravel in your knees
blood in your breath,
a lifetime-
of swinging your fists at anyone who threatened you or your friends,
your family or just someone you thought needed you to save them.
and you have no titles to talk about,
no belts that cover your stomach,
or medals to wear on your chest.
but you do have these broken hands
every crack and fuse another mark that shows the world you don’t back down,
that you'll live
and die
by these broken knuckles.
