The Fighter

I don’t know what it is in me that needs to fight. 

I never learned how to throw a punch but these hands can fly.  

Maybe because I think good things are worth fighting for. I want someone to fight for me, go to battle, just once get me as a prize. I fight, why can’t you? 

The problem is, I’m the one in the ring coming out with bruises and scrapes.  

I’m sore and tired, but I keep going.  

Relentless and unnecessary.  

I’ve started fights when I shouldn’t have. I never quite knew how to choose my battles.  

I fight for control, I fight for what I think is best. 

Once again, the Universe laughed at me. It’s not up to you! There is so little you can plan for.  Just keep your hands up, stand your ground. No, I had to charge.  

Funny enough, the things I should have fought for are long gone.  

What if I fought for her to come here? What if I fought for him to stay?

I fight over small things that don’t matter. I try to control what I know I can’t.  

Then, when that fails, when I’m battered and sore, I fight myself. 

I beat myself up by asking questions like what if and why. I should have done this, I shouldn’t feel this way. 

I never seek peace, just the next contender. 

Endless rounds, a beating by my own hand.

Where did I learn this? Where did this need to fight come from?

If it’s innate, why am I the only one bleeding? 

I never learned how to throw a punch, but I’ve become so familiar with pain.  

Ever the masochist, I’m still scraping, still clawing my way through. To what though? 

I never learned to fight, that’s not how I was raised. We don’t hit, we beat you down instead.  

I never learned to fight but damn I’m good. Good at fighting until what I wanted is gone. 

I never learned to fight, but I taught myself how to cover bruises, mask feelings and keep going.  

I don’t know what it is in me that needs to fight, but here I am, ready for another round.