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Perhaps inside this closed fist,

Are stories too cruel to tell.

Of the men whose own fists were shackled in chains so scalding with hate,

They created a living hell.

The heat emenating from their trailing coils of injustice singed my eyes forever,

My three year old eyes.

It came rushing out from the horrid metal, like a monster with no care for the path of its pillagery,

Right into my face.

My mother tried to shield me in time, but alas it was too late.

The tyrants breath had touched me,

Its fiery limbs groping and burning my outstretched hand as I cried in pain at the sight I beheld,

The blaze attacked my hand, licking it in devilish amusement, melting away the unblemished skin,

And crusting it with an invisible layer of rose coloured scars,

It traveled at a speed too fast for an unwanted intruder of my innocence,

Ravaging its way to my heart,

And left a burning mark, branding the horrors of that day with many others, into its flesh.

The hot air suffocated my nostrils with the smell of day old singed flesh,

Man’s flesh.

The thick, red cloud encapsulated my torso,

Waving between every tendril of my brown curls, flaunting it’s cruel shade upon my head,

A cold, eerie shade that produced no cozy temperature, nor relief from the recesses of the sweltering dungeonous room.

The fire from the tyrants mouth was constricting my lungs,

As the men calmly smiled and attempted to reach down and pat my head,

My body flinched and recoiled in horrified disgust from their sinful, manicured hands, and I pierced through their ugly teeth with the darkest glare a toddler could muster. Hate.

My momentary passions against them paused though, as the rustling of my mothers dress that I had been gripping in a chubby fist, distracted me. With one protective hand on my shoulder, she eased me out from behind and let me take in what I saw.

Then not containing our excitement, hearts overflowing with a tide of love so strong, it extinguished the flame of tyranny in that hot room,

And burst through the dark envelope of my heart, exposing fresh, tender pink skin underneath,

Live skin, unlike the dead encasement that slowly began to peel off,

We rushed forward.


I gently touch the big, calloused hand, aged and worn with exertion, pain and loving toil,

Fingering the wrists that so gracefully held themselves upright, in clutches of fire or not,

And I remember.

I remember so vividly because happenings as those, don’t scar the frontal lobe of your brain, your memory,

But rather I feel, I remember the pain, the living,

Through the memories that were destined and prescribed to be branded into my heart, till the day I leave this world.


So as I throw these fists against the leathery skin of the punching bag,

Yelling the kiyyups for routine, and other more rooted reasons,

And glaring at that bag with a passion,

Fleeting memories of hurt pass before me, and I welcome the pain of my hands, legs, body,

Healing some of it on the inside,

My face is hidden beneath the visor of my head gear,

It’s plastic veil fogging up from the heat of my breath,

Trembling lip,

Flushed cheek,

Tense brow,

Masking a visage of tough emotions,

I remember.

And will never forget.


And, Oh ye void souls of faith and dispersers of tyranny,

We comprehend your ill conceived ways and plans to pitch man against one another, and drive them to despair in the Mercy of God,

So know, that no matter how much we hate what you do, and never cease remembering the harm you inflicted,

We will never allow the tides of Hate and Love to mix within us, one polluting the sanctity of another.

We will never cease growing and blossoming, blooming and brightening, loving, and believing,

The claustrophobia of the closed quarters of your fist only made the perfect haven for a garden.


But nevertheless, I will never forget.

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