You were in the bathroom putting black stripes under your eyes.
You didn’t really know why people did this,
You knew it was a war thing, or maybe a football one.
You came charging out of the bathroom and jumped on the couch
putting one foot on the cushion, and the other on the arm.
You pointed at me, screaming “HEART FIGHT, BI-OTCH”.
I put down my beer immediately and ripped open my shirt, then my chest.
Blood ran down my forearms and dripped off the back of my elbows
and you always hated when I claimed that elbows had backs.
You were doing the same while simultaneously moving the coffee table.
You reared back, holding your beating heart behind your head like a scorpion,
while I took a more neutral stance, gripping it like a baseball at my side.
We circled each other, slowly, staring each other down.
A fine red stream coursed from our hands and chests.
“Not this time. You’re going down this time.”
“I hope you got your plot picked out cause I’m gonna BURY YOU.”
“I hope you kept your receipt, cause I’m gonna render you defective.”
“I hope you’re not asleep on the train, cause this is the END OF THE LINE.”
The ensuing battle resembled something between modern day mud wrestling
and the second to last act of every Jean Claude Van Damme movie ever made.
It would be three days before we collapsed on the couch, exhausted.
“Pizza for supper?” You asked, slipping your heart back inside your blouse
“Yeah, sure.” I replied, wiping the blood from my eyes.
“Don’t get onions though, Fuck onions.”