it is a sucker punch, he knows, i can tell by his smile as my stomach discharges between breathes in murky puddles on the cold concrete sidewalk.
steel limbs support rubber coated cables, tools in the art of torture. strapping me to the rack, he stretches me out, pushing me beyond the point i am willing to spill state secrets, just to keep him at bay.
brian miller...blah...blah...blah...whatever you want to hear...
cool water crashes against my face, attempting to revive me for yet another round. i think he enjoys his job a bit much, pulling on his leather gloves so as not to leave a mark. wickedness is the color of his eyes.
are you ready for more?
he taunts my masculinity, abusing my spirit, pushing me to break fully with each chrome plated implement he pulls from his bag of tricks. the man at the gym is trying to kill me.
when his exercise regimen doesn't quite finish me off, he tries to strangle me with a protein shake, which is how i end up on my knees, under the floodlights out front, watching every horrible thing i ate over the holidays drip slowly into the gutter.
i try to save those making their way toward the door, lemmings on their way to extinction. a few laugh, cold and uncomfortable, already doubting they have what it takes.
it is the week after dawning of the new year, where resolutions go to die...
...when you realise it might actual take work, and progress marches ever so slow. the journey toward your goal stretches well passed the horizon, and it seems so much easier just to take it out on others, find an easier way or just give up.
but then, nothing would ever change.