I don’t mind that my lip is thick and bleeding.
Maybe there is a sagging blue welt
Beneath my left eye, but who knows;
The thick murky taste of blood
That is running down my esophagus
Is enough to have to soon pump my stomach.
The knuckles of my right hand
Are shaped like clumps of dried clay
With bits of embedded porcelain jagging out.
I might have heard them crunch
When you smashed them between your car doors.
But now all I can concentrate on
Is the pressure of my foot crushing your airway
While you lay unconscious in the dirt.