She woke up itching for a fight. She’d never been
in a brawl, had no experience in the pugilist craft
but she wanted just once to try and beat the hell out
of somebody. She figured she’d feel bad afterwards, 
would be compelled to apologize, make amends in
some fashion. But that wouldn’t be a problem because
she’d lived most of her life that way, saying I’m sorry,
doing what was necessary for reconciliation even when
the words were premature and the kiss and make-up
manufactured just so the gods would be at ease again.
She realized the chances were better than good she’d 
be the one the floor was mopped up with but the lust
for blood in her mouth and bruises on her otherwise
uncolored life was something she could no longer duck.

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1 Comment

  1. figarobo on May 5, 2012 at 9:48 pm

    You rock!

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