Let me tell you about my hands

They all hurt. All 8 of them. Each with to knuckles crying for an ice pack to alleviate the throbbing pain of this morning’s consciousness. I hesitate on their dying plea and make fists, assessing the extent of which I felt like my life was over last night. The blood stains leading down my right palm to my pillow case prove that he was the one that questioned my ability to feel alive last night, but clearly after he could take no more punishment his brother stepped in to take the finals blows before I passed out awkwardly on my kitchen floor. It’s euphoric to feel the pain creep up my arms to my elbows. I learned a while back that it’s easier to make excuses for broken fingers than for cuts on legs that a just a little too straight. And besides, every bump every day reminds me that for some reason I still love you more than you will ever know. I think about writing the brick walls and wooden fences a thank you note and laugh. Thank you for all the times you have been there for me. Thank you for being strong when I am weak. Thank you for never breaking down on me. It makes me happy to know that all my life cement walls will be with me to pick me up when I’m down. Realizing my fingers have nearly convinced my eyes to cry, and my mouth to scream I wearily open my freezer door. I grab the bag of frozen peas and ice pack and feel relieved as they numb my knuckles back into nothing.