Jarrod Sage
you said you needed space today and
i know it’s bad to say but that
scared me. i told myself
“i know this feeling is
unhealthy,” so i went to
the gym to sweat out the
anxiety. i know that my heart is
on the left side of
my body. i wonder what flesh
fills the space opposite—i think
about you all the time from
each half.
when i feel someone is about
to leave, i try to let that pass. i think
my way through, process the emotions
mentally, maybe save a few
hearts along the way from bursts
of electricity.
i saw a punching bag hang. i went
up to it, but didn’t bring gloves for
kickboxing with me—i didn’t feel
like getting any.
i threw a few right
hooks, jabs, spun counterclock-
wise for a couple
shin kicks. i set a timer on
my phone for just over one
minute, got in stance. i
hit the bag over and
over without stopping.
when the alarm clattered out, i ceased, drank
some water, felt my right
hand throbbing.
the skin had flayed, knuckles cut, there was blood
staining
between my ring and right
pinky. i used to spar and train with
a friend who would always tell me
“i’m a southpaw—it catches the opponent
off guard,”
he would hit a bag in his garage
without gloves, impulsively
leaving his hand bruised, unloved, his wrist
sprained, usually hidden inside
wrapping tape.
i eyed the scrapes.
i felt that—if i’m going to keep
playing—then one of
these hands is always going to end up
bloody.