roseeee

Ms. Fit, the Fighter

I press my hand

against my chest,

feel the skin grip

tense, the stubble

rough as sand,

the paper-thin skin

soft as a girl’s,

tough as her bag.

Hit it hard—

like you\'re going for the guy

behind the guy you\'re hitting

or in this case,

the sandbag:

Ms. Fit, the Fighter

trained in the wrong style, she

isn\'t even a fighter,

unfit physically and mentally

she’s not meant to be he—here

my hand presses itself

against my chest,

expects to pass through

to grab the water

behind her, the desert

sand catches my fist

I reach in further,

press it harder,

my tendons tense

around my ribs

like oobleck—

I soften my grip,

feel my chest’s skin,

the void in it,

it feels my prints back,

unlocks the cage

and lets me in.