bloodied knuckles,
clenched fists,
black eyes and bruised cheeks.
The aftermath of a drunken fight,
of a tussle with an ex-lover,
of fights long past.

Knuckled turning white
from a fist held too tight.
He says I have fighting hands,
but a pacifist spirit.
And I laugh because,
it's true actually.

It's almost funny
that I want to fight.
I don't know how to,
and I'd probably lose.
It'll be okay though,
the urge will soon pass.