Inner Arena

-
There is a place inside me
that looks like a battlefield.
Not metaphor.
Not philosophy.
A real place.
Steel sky.
Broken ground.
Smoke hanging in the air
like the aftermath of something ancient and violent.
And across that field
stands the thing that wears my face.
It smiles the way predators smile.
It knows my anger.
My hate.
My fear.
Every scar someone ever left inside my ribs.
It knows exactly
how far I can go.
Because it is the part of me
that would go there.
Every day we meet.
Every day the gates open.
And the world thinks I’m just another man
walking through grocery stores
scrolling through phones
laughing at normal conversations.
They don’t see the arena.
They don’t hear the roar.
Inside my skull
two versions of me
are tearing the ground apart.
One wants destruction.
One wants control.
Both of them are strong.
Most people pretend the monster isn’t real.
That’s why when it finally wakes up
it devours them.
Mine doesn’t get to wake up.
Mine trains.
Every insult.
Every betrayal.
Every moment rage tries to crawl up my spine—
that’s just another round.
Another clash.
Another explosion of will
against instinct.
I don’t run from it.
I step forward.
Because the truth is simple:
Power doesn’t come from pretending
the darkness isn’t there.
Power comes from grabbing it by the throat
and forcing it to kneel.
And every time the dust settles
every time the demon falls back
breathing but beaten
I walk out of that arena
a little sharper
a little harder
a little more alive.
Tomorrow the gates open again.
Good.
I was hoping they would.

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