In the ring of dusk and dawn I stand,
Gloves laced tight by trembling hand.
Across from me, that shadowed shape—
The bottle’s ghost, with no escape.
It grins with teeth of amber glass,
A sly old friend from darker past.
We’ve danced before, it knows my swing,
My weakest rib, my broken wing.
The bell rings out, a hollow chime,
A call to war, to end old time.
It jabs with whispers, slick and mean,
“Just one more round…you know the scene.”
But I’ve been training, breath and bone,
With truth, and tears, and nights alone.
My body knows another beat,
One born of fire, not defeat.
I duck the shame, I dodge the lie,
Each punch I throw, a battle cry.
Not for perfection, not for fame—
But just to rise and name my name.
Blood and sweat, the ring is red,
With all the things I never said.
But still I fight, and still I stand,
With fire burning in my hands.
And when the final bell does sound,
I won’t be crawling on the ground.
I’ll lift my chin, my heart, my flame—
And walk out stronger than I came.
The ghost still lingers, calls my name,
But I’ve unlearned the rules of shame.
Not with fury, not with pain—
But power pulsing through my veins.
I choose my breath. I choose the light.
I won this round. I own this fight.