Mirror Writing

The ball of my hand is a dull, slick gray,

a shadow I earned the hard way.

I dragged the meat of my palm through the ink,

giving the landlord a piece of what I think.

Three pages of logic, three pages of spite,

scuffed by the skin in the heat of the fight.

It’s a metallic bruise, a leaden stain,

the mark of a southpaw working through rain.

I’ll wash it off with a green scrub pad,

scrubbing away the small power I had.

But for now, I’m silver, industrial and cold,

holding the grievance I finally told.