Faces

A punch or a kick. A blow. Perhaps to the ribs or maybe even the head. A bruise or a crack, something for scarring. A lulled head and rejection of help but the people still there to lift me up. A little blood couldnt go far wrong. Just something. To instil me with a shortness of breath; to give me a little drama. But not to lose. I wouldn't like that. No. Some music as well, as I've seen before. My own soundtrack and a girl to cry and worry over me. To be confused and to not understand. Friends as well, to be there but not to take over. So they can look at me and my life. My struggle. Its a pity.

A punch a kick. A blow. Perhaps more. A putrid black bruise, beaten un der the skin. Sickening blood from a pulsing writhing wound on a face that I don't know. A sickening refusal of help and I dont know if i should be here. Or if i want to be. Heavy breathing or panic or rage. A fool. There are no eyes to meet or console my own, wet and painful. There is no boy or man. There is no sound but stumbling shuffling feet, scratching grit on the road. Fenced out by the thick shoulders and stubborn faces. Not a word; a touch or a look. Behind, or maybe below. Why?