Sore Losers

I hate it when we fight

Both getting defensive

Dukes up

Tossing barbs

And jabs

And the strikes add up

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9… 10

TKO

Each of us wants

To be the winner

Implying that one of us is right

And the other is wrong

But which is which?

There is no champion

No crown of victory

Only a series of blows

Until a bell is rung

So we retreat to our mutual corners

Me over here

And you over there

Until we take a stand once more

Facing off at centre ring

Not knowing

If it’s the start of another round

Or if we should just shake hands

And declare this match drawn

So I drop my gloves… and forfeit

And now

Punch drunk

And battle worn

We’re left to tend our wounds

In mutual silence

As the hurts swell up

Getting bigger

And in the end

It turns out

We’re both sore losers

Image: No Claim

Writing Unbound