Sore Losers

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 


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

Words: ©2021LCR
Image: No Claim