Pain Pulls No Punches

Pain Pulls No Punches

steals your gait, grabs it faster than it takes you to hit the ground. And with it, Pain picks up your turn of neck, so you can’t see Pain coming, pops it in a sack with your patience. You want to punch, kick, prowl after Pain to reclaim your stuff, but your body’s mute, stunned like that first time a boy told you he didn’t like you like that. Stunned like that first time you woke to your body bleeding—your 14 th birthday slumber party sabotaged by your sister’s whine to Dad that you’re going to get blood on the sheets. Stunned like that one time Mary gave you a key to go into her room to get a CD and you saw Sally’d tied a boy to her bedposts. Stunned like that first time Dad caught you lying—you put too many of your beans in your sister’s chili bowl— and your face burned as you shoved it in your teddy bear’s chest. There’s no grin as Pain sidesteps out of reach, waggling your stamina to stand at a counter, cut carrots for your salad. There’s no joy in Pain’s heft of sack onto shoulder, weighed down by your swift dip to touch your toes. Loss burns in your empty bones: your marrow secreted away in Pain’s sack. You’re left propped in your bed by pillows, plotting, preparing yourself to take it all back.