I met Ares in the form
of a bloody nose and scraped knees
On the playground of my first fist fight.
8 years young, scrappy and scrawny,
With a mouth that ran faster
Than my high top shoes could take me
A looming shadow on a cloudy day,
He breathed fire in my lungs
And pumped iron in my blood.
He cursed me with blind light,
blurred lines and a fist fight,
And between my teeth I can no longer taste
the difference between blood and bullets.
Now they lie in a plain white cage
Locked to keep him in, that burning red rage
I know now without a doubt
I was cursed innocent and tossed about,
8 years young, scrappy and scrawny
Raised to behave but always accused wrongly.
The things I’ve learned from my time down here:
Ares demands to be felt
There’s no place for fear.