(Horseplay)

Fighting

I.

I grew up a boy believe it or not.

Hit me back if I make you cry

if I lean too long

on your wind

hit me back

but don't tell

because I'm sorry

but

we both agreed to the rules

and I did not break them. Okay?

This is what you wanted.

II.

The flying knee to the soft of the back

that dropped him on the field,

a receipt for the cheap shot

(but less that than)

the hang-jaw What'd I Do

and Hey It's A Game, Baby

as he jogged off.

Baby, I'm Just Trying To Win.

So, now you. Now you. Now I'm you.

Running in circles in a cul-de-sac

from a friend

until we're tired and bored

and ashamed.

It wasn't anything.

He wasn't a friend.

We got high in the car.

I was sure he would reach over

and throttle me.

But nah, nah, nah. Whatever.

It's whatever.

III.

On the receipt,

she said to me

You should hit him.

He's a pussy.

You should just hit him

in his fucking face.

She laughed and said this until I was hard

for her.

IV.

Broken, as follows, out of order:

the bedframe

the clock

the photographs

the wall

the ring

the necklace

the other wall

the laptop

and two mirrors

because anger lends itself to cliche 

in that way.

V.

Under stale covers

swollen knuckles were compared.

This is not love

to be sure.

This is not--