I wanted it real, and if real meant blood, then that’s what I came for.

I know how to bleed. Biologically speaking, I was born for it. Psychologically speaking, I’m one of the kids they have to pull off the playground. Because it’s true, what they say about growing up. As you get older, you have to stop carrying Kleenex around. You learn to live with red lips and hands as if they’re stained with something more than your own motifs and motives. As if someday they will be clean again.

We walk around with open wounds, and they are the kind that we’re too scared to tell our loved ones about. So instead we tell strangers on the internet everything or we purge it onto blank pages. I have never gotten the balance just right, so instead, I leave a trail of red for everyone to follow. No exclusions. Open invitation. Arms wide. Bells on. Drip. Drip. Drip.

My first love was a fighter. He was hell, but worth the hemorrhage and I was fifteen and finding out the hard way. Letting it pool at his feet before promising to be more careful. Figuring out how to fall without busting up both knees. And don’t get me wrong, there was romance. But his true value lied in vehemence.

From the moment I met him, I knew he would be a worthy weapon. Wrists wrapped and fists clenched, so young and agile and full of rage that his initial swing left me unable to stand, knees weak. He looked like Tyler Durden and tasted like violence, and I was consumed by the fierce, almost feverish, way in which he loved me. I should have known from the start that I would not make it out of the ring without a few cuts and bruises, broken bones, a black eye, and a buried heart. When things went south, we only ever danced around all of our issues, taking swings that were meant to break bodies rather than leave us black and blue. Every hit aimed to kill.

T
K
O.

(The masochist that stands before you today is a creation of this man.)

If you believe in reincarnation, then you understand that our wayward waltz did not equate to death. Not in the literal sense. Blood dries. Wounds heal. Water and wine are always worth an attempt to wash the past away. Sacrament and baptism. Forgiveness and redemption in whatever forms the savagery of love allows. I wasn’t born a hemophiliac. I was given a choice. You adapt. Acquiesce.

Let it kill you or leave a trace.