I'm a lightweight and a cheap date.

I've got reassurance in my corner
and I'm willing to stand my ground.
I will not hit the mat.
Even if I fall, I'll probably fall but I will not stay down.
Right hook and I'm on par.

Wounded. But standing.

Round three.

My bout with confidence -- a true heavyweight.

The only thing that will collapse
is a little tent labeled insecurity,
it's a ****-yellow tent they typically set up near the entrance
staffed with two guards built like bulldozers,
who have the longevity of snow -- and fall just as easily
because they know the truth,
because they only speak in lies,
because the only security they offer is the lack thereof,
because they know that I have used words with more purpose
than they harness in any of their possessions.

Jab. Gut. Eye.
Broken.
Vessel.
Skin.
Dizzy.

And I'm fourteen thousand feet above -- and you look radiant awesome,
from up here you look stellar and harmonious.
From up here any omnipresence would be content with its creation.
From up here everything shimmers.

Stars. Blurred. Focus. Pulled.

It's when we get down -- face to face --
on the surface -- in the details --
this is where we find discomfort
embodied in the discontent of being knocked out
by truth.