TV’s smack could never capture the
thud his fist made while
burying itself in my flesh.
Hollywood’s wooden nose grew a foot
as I maintained my balance after his second fist
executed a swan dive into my eye.
No director screamed from a chair, “CUT!”
after his knuckle sliced my cheek.
Actors, healed by the next scene
could never fathom my weeks
roaming the halls weakened
by wounding taunts and stares
stitches in my eye could never sew.
My apologies to the academy,
I sought no revenge
until I saw my own fists capsizing
faith, trust and patience I had in myself.
Then…
it was on,
and the cycle began again.
Where are those cameras now?
Sincerely,
The Beaten