Not really poetry but something I wanted to share from a while back.

'"You're the knife."
Words. Clumsy words. Taught to me by my father, and his before, and worn into my skeleton like a bad habit. This was a bad habit, and still is. 
"Be the knife." 
A hoarse whisper in the dark against the swinging, hanging light. Ten competitors, thirty spectators; all losers. Two in the middle. All my life I've practiced and trained and pained for something so much greater than this. Means does indeed, unfortunately, make the man. 
As I grip the soft leather of the knife handle, circa 1909, I hope these letters find you well. I hope they find me well, too, and I'm sorry for the three of us that it's come to this, cher. I'm sorry that every night for the last eight months I've promised I would come home, but haven't. I can't. Every penny here is ten dollars at home, and ten dollars we need. Every scar over my cheek a simple victory. Every meal is a regret. Every night is goodbye. I miss you. I've never said it, and I can barely think it. Now it's time to set these heavy, bendleather boots on the line.
The knife is a refined lover; a breadwinner. A masculine handle with feminine curves. The knife is all those days in the rain on security jobs, tucked away carefully in the webbing under my vest. The handle was never far from my fingertips the same way you're never far from my mind. The knife is my temptress and mistress, and it's unfortunate that I've been led this far astray. I am Vors Mavrachov, and I am the victim of your memories this evening.
"C'mon pretty boy," a voice over the debts and bets. 
My opponent. I don't know his name, but his face was about as disgusting as mine. Old man's buzzcut of a greying black hairline, receding from two angular scars on his temples. He's been in this game a long time. His cutter was plain and shining, reminiscent of a one-piece prison shiv, held in a reverse grip, switching hands in fluidity. His feet were wide, ankles were probably wrapped. A sweep might work, but he had four inches of reach on me.
This is the second round. First was eye-for-eye. He sliced me over my guarding left forearm, but I dug into his metacarpal. I lose rotation, he loses grip. Too bad neither was the dominant hand. This might have been over a bit more quickly.
Focus. Opponent, fakesteps right, his knife in my left. It's going to be a thrust with his right, right step. I've done this hundreds of times, but it never slows down. It never gets easier.
"SSH!" 
An exhalation of air, serving to both oxygenate the blood, brace the organs for trauma, and prepare to scream obscenities. We both do this. We're both purpose-built machines with reflexes faster than our brains and small, tight muscles. There are no bodybuilders in the fighter's circuit. There's room for water, but not for systemic lag. Not for ego. Not for anyone. That's why your things were gone on the worst Thursday of my life.
Not now, fuck. Focus! I can hear my handler—my instructor-- grinding his teeth above all of this, screaming this at me on the inside of his head. Opponent: Downward cut fake. No one uses that, he must've been testing my feet. I had to shift my weight to avoid a viscious circular cut. Bob, watch his arc slide over my ear, flip to reverse grip. Reverse upward cut, don't have time to turn the jaw. I regret it immediately, and the crowd roars when he leans back, tucks all his limbs inward, and all his weight translates to a boot aimed for my most vital solar plexus. A roar of pain sweeps through me as I turn in time to take it in the ribs instead. I feel them crack, and they'll hurt tommorow but not now. Not right now, I don't have time for pain. I'm already staggered back and Opponent is coming in, forward grip, trying to grab my hand. His eyes are as desperate as mine, teeth gleaming and yellow. 
I still hear you in my mind when his fingers wrap around my wrist. I still see your impatient fingernails on the table, tapping, telling my tunnel vision that our water is turned off again and I need to find more work. You don't understand how much this training has meant to me, and how soon the world will need my talents. You don't understand how much I would give anything to have that back and be right there, right now.
Focus! Pay attention to where you are! Three slaps to the back of my head, entire hours of shock-focus therapy. Slap. Pay attention. Slap. What is the procedure? Slap. Wake up to a note from you on your pillow. Slap. Wake up! Slap. What are you doing? Slap. That day at the beach, I picked a flower for your hair. Pink, not your color, but it'll do. Slap. You're going to die!
Scenario Two: double elbow, single knife counter. Five hundred times for mastery. Five hundred more for autonomy. Ten more for every failure at fifty percent effectiveness or less. He has my wrist, going for a triangular cut on my neck. Injured hand, sweep his arc over his arm. Feet are too close to compromise his close knee. Lock his knife-elbow over his grabbing elbow, rotate my wrist out, use more muscles, half step in, move the arm in an L. His feet are close together, compromised. Only have time for one thing. I go to cut into his femoral, forward grip and low. My left foot is behind both of his. He's a pretzel, standing too tall, but he has just enough time to flip his knife hand back down. I'm diverted, cutting uselessly into his hip bone and probably chipping my knife. He feels the pain as the force behind my Sweetheart catches up to him. He's tripped over my left foot, but keeps his knife up so I can't pounce. Effectiveness: Sixty percent. Assessment: Veteran Opponent. Lucky bugger, and he knows just how lucky he is.
His ukemi is good. Less than a second and he's back up. His hip isn't bothering him now, but it'll stop most inward or parrying kicks. I'm winning this. I can finish this.
"You're the knife. Set sail." My mantra, for better or for worse. 
I hear a guttural roar, two big steps at me. I lunge instinctively, but he does a half step fake backwards. 
"Tss!!" Shit, I'm off balance. Too soon! My hips lurch behind me, but my torso keeps going, and I get a vicious kick in the ribs again. The overextension makes it blindingly painful, but I'm rechambered in time to notice he'd made an arc for my neck. 
Split seconds are the fighters' saviour. My instructor would tell me this in memories I pull from the curves of the knife. He would point out the objectives, draw out the most efficient arcs to be done in rapid succession in a red colored sharpie. Draw out wounds—nonlethals-- with blue. Now every man I meet is just a circulatory and nerve system giving me a handshake. Every muscle is capacity and conditioning. Water and fat content. Sectioned like a butchers' special cut. We are, after all, butchers of men by trade. 
Opponent: Grimacing and squinting. Not losing my blood, but trying to understand my story. I give him a slow, advancing step, flipping to forward grip, knife hand forward, pointed at his eyes so he'll second guess the length of the blade. This is my bulls eye, and my dance, and all of my art. This is why I can never give it up, and why my Sweetheart can never quite drink enough.
"S'that all you got? Fuckin' fabulous!" Opponent: Playing the tough guy. Whistling in the dark. Sweating out his fear. Trying to play the spider when he's caught in a web of personal short-comings, fear of death, of loss, of what his will might have said about him. No man has fear for death if he's winning. Every man will fight before he prays. I know this. I have felt this. A moment ago, I've lived this. Maybe I'll continue to live it, even after this last fight. And tommorow's last fight. And the day after's.
DING.
The round is over. Seven minutes. I lose my edge, my focus. There are fifty voices screaming at me, and everything is just a hollow, stifled mess of sounds and lights. Water, not too much. Towel, keeps the sweat from stinging my eyes. My instructor, arms folded. His voice is the only one I hear.
"Hey. Hey! You need to wake up out there. Sssshit."
"What for?"
"You haven't won yet, that's what for! Look, listen, the pressure's on but—"
A slow ringing in my ears, as he reminds me of my daily bread. My vows. Not just to kill for money. Not that this is just another knife fight. Not that it might be my last if I don't give it my all. None of that. I have to know that every step I take and trap I trip is representing all of my training lineage. Everything that I came from is what I am up to this point, and I should never betray it. I've heard this a thousand times, and it's failed to be sobering until now.
Until this very second, stretching on forever, between the bells. 
My heart is beating hard and heavy, and my skin stretches tight along my forehead. I can't hear anything now. I feel numb and trapped, looking through a pinhole tunnel at the end of my own eyes. All I can think about is the insurance plan. All I can think about is how close I am to being on the line dividing always, and never, having to do this again. 

~~

Our son is eleven years old. He already knows English, Russian, Korean. It's a weird combination. He doesn't have a violent bone in his body, but he has my hands. He plays violin, and next year he wanted to start piano, but we couldn't find a teacher willing to teach for free. He has his mothers' eyes, even though both of us carry the dominant color gene, I have a feeling he'll never shed the long, feminine lashes. I'm glad he's smart. I'm sad I'm gone so often. He asks me where I go. I'm either out training, in the garage, or across the ocean. My hands are learning to do things I pray every night to a god I hope is there, that he'll have to never know about. My hands are learning the knife, the windpipe, the Kalashnikov, the desperate eye gouge in the rain; I just tell him I'm working. Every time I go away, and I'm stepping off the welcome mat with those tired, heavy straps over my shoulders, I look back. There's my family. I have to change the way our blood flows. Their love is what keeps me coming back.

~~
DING!
Toes back on the line. Forehead's clean. What's the damage? Nothing new hurts. Good, he didn't manage to extend anything. Opponent: Looks frosty like the first round. No limp. Medicated? Probably. He opens his maw:
"Last round, last round!" He smirks.
I swallow, but stick in. Just have to get this over with quick. The heat of the lights is getting to me. The bedsheets are sticking to me. Your face is chasing me. Our son's recital, I missed it. If I die here, the insurance will pay out better than anything I can ever bring back with me. Plane tickets cost so much.
Opponent steps, switches hands, reverse grip. He started with his bad hand, out of habit. He checks; low kick. I stop with a reverse. Thrust, but he rechambers before I can do anything. He's been saving this. Each thrust is just as fast, moving in and out at a slight angle, probably the almighty fifteen degrees. It's too hard to palm or dig my fingers around, too fast for a countercut. It's too risky and he's pushing me back. He goes faster, and faster, teeth gritting together, breaths snowballing into a ferocious roar. I backstep but it's not enough. If I fall into the wrong side of the crowd I'll get shiv'd for sure. Have to move the energy. Left backstep. Right backstep. Compressed energy;
"K'OP!" 
My own primal call. Sweetheart takes a quick bite of his ear. I was aiming for his neck. He backedstepped. He was playing this. It was expected. All I can hear is a dull thud. All I can feel is a splinter of pain, multiplying into a shrill, deafening spiderweb crack of my resolve completely coming apart.
Bastard is a thrower. My left lung, between the two bottom ribs. Fight to pull it out, need to stay standing. The pain reflex kicks in and my head drops to one side, Sweetheart is loose in my hand. He kicks it out with a crescent off of his good leg, jumps, axe legs the side of my head. I only have just enough time to tighten my jaw muscles and turn up a couple of degrees before the whole god damn globe shakes and my world is a big bright flash.
Blackness. Pain. Choking. I can only imagine the horrible recovery time I'd be enduring. I feel my lung starting to collapse, and three of my ribs are popped. He's been on top of me now, for a while. Screaming, red, and almost breathless. His knuckles are going soft against my skull. Broken ocular, more flashes. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't feel anything but waves of tiny pins connecting to my brain. I'm in shock. I can't breathe.
This is a piss-poor spot to make my grave, here, on commercial metal grate. Here, on the cutting room floor. Here, fighting for the ego of some fat, suited man I'll never know.

~~

"What do you want to name him?"
"Well, how do we know it's a boy?"
"You were on top, you remember, cher?" 
She winks at me. We're living in our mouldy basement suite in Fort Mercer. Her hair smells like summer, and her voice is soft. We can't wake up the landlord, and he sleeps pretty much all the time.
"I don't really know. I'm not good with names."
"Mm, how about Leo?"
Well, no, absolutely not Leo. It should be a little more admirable than that. Maybe, heroic. Hopeful. I don't really like how much Leo reminds me of cheap horoscope scrolls that never helped me win the lottery.
"Maybe not."
"Philipe?"
"Hahaha, definitely not." My fingers wind into hers.
"What's your suggestion, then?"
The outline of her pale skin freezes in my memory forever. Auburn hair, dark brown doe eyes with their long, thin lashes. Medium, curling lips. Always smiling.
Always.

~~

Gasping. My throat isn't collapsed. My hands, numb and swollen at my sides, tingling through to my fingertips. Pinky is twitching with effort, hooked around something. It's something I wouldn't mistake for any other sensation, any other harmony in this world. Nothing as pure. Nothing to me, like this siren song of oxygen and my Sweetheart. 

~~

The rain against the window. My everything feels cold, and a black eye to push against the fog on the inside. It all hurt so much, most pain I'd ever been in. But my baby set a cup of cocoa down into my waiting hands.
"… does it hurt?"
"Sure." 
I sip, looking at her. I'm trying not to grin. It's been so long, and we've lost so much to get here. We've had to run away from so much and I can't help but feel this is the longest silent minute of my life. She looks at me with pursed lips.
"You could say something, y'know. It's so hard to try and understand what you're even thinking with this 'security' job bullshit! Why don't you tell me anything? Why don't you ever crack?"
Need to give her my best serious face. I'm estatic. This is utterly impossible. 
"…"
"And what in god's name are you grinning about? Look at you! You're a mess! No one is going to hire you if you look like someone's fucking thug all the time!"
I feel a napkin go over the cut on my brow, still a bit raw. I'm not sure if I wince.
"…I got a job."
"You what?"
"I uh,"
"Yeah I fucking well heard you! What do you mean? What kind of job?"
"The kind that pays. Don't worry about it, baby."
She bites her lip. I know she knows. She knows I know she knows. But it's the kind of job that pays. 
"Just this once, baby. I promise." My best smile. My best pokerface.
I'm absolutely petrified, for the first time in my life.

~~

Money. Is that why I'm doing this? Is that why I'm bleeding out and listening to the cartilage in my face settle? Is that what hours of pain and torture and conditioning and steeling of nerves is worth? Scraps of paper? Promises of gold? 
My familiar. My beloved. My Sweetheart. She's all I need to make this pain go away. My smile muscles twitch, but I can only imagine the grotesque thing that was my face isn't even close to resembling the human smile. He stopped pounding minutes ago. The pain never stopped. I can barely control my arms.
This is my will. This is my everything. I need to be the right kind of man this time. I need to be something more than income and expenses. I need to be everything I really am. Not for me. Not for anyone but my woman, and my son. They're parts of me too, and parts that can't be left on the floor. Not like me.
My lineage. My fingers find their way around the handle. None of my fingers are broken. Sweetheart is a flawless tool. We're extensions of each other, and we're our lineage. We've inherited sin and selfishness; brooding hours of torment and countless nights sleeping on the couch. We earned that final note, those final warnings. Together, we've earned all the money that will never buy back our souls. 
I can feel his breath on my forehead.
Come on, Sweetheart. Let's be good together, just one time.

~~

"Weak! You know better than that!"
Fists strike me in the gut. Three hits that I'm not allowed to shirk away from. It draws tears this time. 
"Lower! You compromise your weight, you die! You fall down, you die! You lose focus—"
Three more hits. It's burning cold, biting my feet and consuming every ounce of my strength. I want to go home. I want my long hair back. I want mom's cooking back. I don't care how strong this is going to make me anymore. I can't even brag about it, I'm not allowed to have personal dignity. 
"You. Die!"
My instructor hits me again. He's a righteous bastard; a real prick. Three months, we've been at this. I don't feel any stronger. I just feel destroyed. Every day the same regiment of calisthetics. Every day the same ruthless eye destroys any confidence I had in my form. Every day is another cut on my forearms, with the gift I was born into. 
My curse. 
My Sweetheart.
I am sixteen years old.

~~

Breathe. Breathe! I barely make a gurgle. My arms are both shaking with effort, trying to move without him taking notice. Sweetheart, you're so close. We're so close.
Baby, I'm so close to coming home. I just have to do this one more time.
I muster a weak kidney punch with my left hand, enough to turn his head to that side. Right hand seeks a triangular cut on the jugular. A knick is enough. He reacts poorly, slapping the blade further so it bites. Nothing is sharper. My thumb cramps up. I've lost too much blood, but he was finished.
So was I. The crowd was silent as Opponent falls Left. I feel my insides churn with excitement, and my outsides churn in revulsion. I'm victory. I'm bodilessness. I am the knife.

~~

Six weeks of hospital recovery time before I'm cognizant. Ten weeks before I'm recognizable and on the list for actual reconstruction. Forty four thousand dollars of medical expenses not covered by insurance and the health care system in this country. Three million dollars of victory. I'll never have to do a job like that again. I might never have to kill again. The thought of this is unsettling.
I'm coming to on week nine, perfectly aware of my progress to a full recovery on the road of never. My Instructor is sitting at the end of my bed, god only knows for how long before he says anything.
"You did good."
Another uncomfortable silence. There's not a breathing tube down my throat, but it feels like there is. I don't really want to talk, and I don't have to. He reads my mind.
"Your family is proud of you. I told them you got hurt stopping civilians from crossing into an IED zone. Or…"
"…Or something like that."
My own voice is foreign, hoarse and deep. It crackles up from the driest scar tissue in my lungs, but I still manage a weak laugh.
"Yeah. They—"
He looks in my eyes for a long second. The hair on the back of my neck, wet and itchy, starts to stand up. There's no saying anything. 
"Vors. Son,"
His eyes welled up. His hands are behind his back. I have to nod, slowly. My lips are cracked and dry as I lick them.
".. looks like my hospital equipment is going to have a malfunction, eh?"
"Looks like it. You—Vors,"
His words choke in his throat; a hanging thread of silence. Two slow clicks of a nine millimetre. I won, and the losers didn't like the upset. Pyrrhic Victory, I suppose.
"Vors."
He pointed the gun at me. Untraceable, in a single white hospital glove.
"I wish I was a man with half the heart for the things you are. For the things you do, and for the people you love. You aren't leaving them behind. You're going ahead of them, to wait at the crossroads." 
Shut up old man.
He takes my Sweetheart in another gloved white hand, placing the handle against my lips. I give her a kiss.
"We men, do great things, and we do evil things. We only do good things when the ones we loved are still alive." 
He showed me a picture of them. They made it on the plane. They changed lives, just like me.
I shut my eyes, and the bell rings for the last time.

Ding.

-Marvachov, xoo'