Cage Fight

They say life’s a stage.

Velvet curtains, warm lights,

applause ready to swallow you whole.

But I know better.

It’s a cage fight

no choreography, no script,

just fists wrapped in quiet rage,

blood soaking through the metaphor.

I get torn open on schedule

prime time brutality,

seven o’clock sharp,

right after the weather report,

before the sitcom reruns

where people pretend to laugh.

Every weeknight,

I drag my fractured bones back in,

bite down on the ache,

and tell myself I chose this.

But the truth is,

the cage never asked.

It just locked.

And I keep showing up.