I am the only one who understands us. I am the only one who understands me. Eight broken knuckles with pulsing bruises and bloody drops on Friday nights. Eight that are unwanted but are here. Eight reminders imbedded in my body. In my thoughts, I can see them, but mom just whines and begs me to stop.

My strength is unusual. I throw powerful blows above the neck. They feel pain and they fall to the ground to grab a breath of air and spit blood from their teeth and almost lose their sight. They can’t keep up.

Let me forget my reason for fighting, I’d fall like an umbrella in the wind, my arms would dangle by my sides. Get up, get up, get up they say when I lay. They scream.

When I am too tired and too hurt to keep fighting, when I am exhausted leaning against the ropes, then I think of my knuckles. When there is nothing left to look at in my life. Eight who gave me passion despite the family. Eight who fight and do not forget to fight. Eight whose only reason is to remember and remember.