Shadow Boxing with "Paper Shadows"
I have bloody knuckles these days.
Wasn't sure where they came from: torn skin, paper-cut fresh, red as a boxer's.
They'd just appear, like odd socks and bad hair come morning.
Fitful nights spent after haunted waking hours and, when I do sleep, dreams as nightmares.
"Where'd you get those?"
Me, checking my fists like it's the first time I've seen them.
"Hold them up."
I do. Splayed.
"Clench your hand."
Like a pugilist.
"Put them to your mouth."
I humour them.
"You've been biting your fist."
The casual air of a forensic pathologist. And they're right, of course.
I have bloody knuckles.
I suppose to keep from screaming in my sleep.