My pen feels weak in my hands.
by Khauri Teverbaugh
My emotions seem to pour
like a hourglass full of sand.
with every inhale my chest trembles
With every exhale more tears stream.
I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me,
down to my toes.
It was not the thud of his punches
landing on my chest that hurt.
His chokehold around my neck
did not take away my breath
My scratches at his throat were trying to do more
than release his grip
and my stance was not one of retreat.
A fight is a fight,
thats not what rips into me.
What hurts is that we share the same blood.
We should be friends, we should be able
to look out
To see each other's hearts and respect.
We should be able to stay calm and collected
in our thoughts and words.
This is both the hurt and the hope that cages this rage.
It is the love that fuels this hate.
These are the wounds that sting as I cry.
These are the scars that I try to hide.