The Same Courtesy

Let’s pretend we’re not friends.

Let’s start at the beginning and make room for a few insults, death threats even. Let’s shower the world around us with faults, swear words, and of course, a few lines of, “You ain’t shit” just for the sake of color-coding our fist fights from yellow, black, then something in the shade of blue.

Let’s dance around the room with boxing gloves, and have the walls bend and fold in sideways from our gut punches and blows to the chest, face, and throat. And if we still can’t seem to get it right, let’s get mighty Thor involved and the looseness of his hammer, so he’ll take a day or two to teach us how to use ours.

Finally, when the dirt has been thrown into more dirt, let’s find out what true love is and divorce the days, weeks, and years it has taken us to finally come to such blows. Let us walk back to the early days of war, and let that tooth become a victim for that eye like Abraham and those golden days spoke of. I’m just trying to make war with words; but instead of letters, let’s try a few daggers since we have more than 26 of them.

See, I’m in love with the idea of how much love we can invent together. I’m also in love with how much pain we can let go. However, on any given day, I’m embracing both–like a poet does– because they seem to always extend me the same courtesy whenever those doubts begin to creep their fingers down my trousers.

Especially without my permission.


M.C. Davis

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