The Fighter

She looked at him with those grey eyes. Her stare had the power to squeeze his heart, to make him suffer. Just like his words had the power to shrink her, just like his actions had the power to silence her, just like he had had the audacity to stampede all over her.

She didn’t always have that anger and hunger for his demise, even though he was the one that almost turned her into this monster. This, however, is not a tale of sorrow and weakness. It is not a tale of growth and transformation. It is a tale of the aftermath. A tale of what happened to this person after she was hurt and after she became a fighter. Just like a fighter, she had strength. She needed to be in control and to direct her strength in the right direction. She was not he. And he, she could not become.

There were times that prompted her to hurt him back. Those times scratched the surface of the matchbox. They left the flaming match to devour all in its path. However, she knew that if fire were unleashed, she would have to put it out. What if she could manipulate the use of the match? What if the match were used to light a candle, to illuminate a place swarming with darkness? After a lot of thought, she made a decision. She chose to begin focusing all her energy on things that actually benefitted her. She used the stormy eyes to focus on the board, a basketball rim, guitar strings. She used her survival skills to stand back up after a bad grade, a rough game, a hard song.

Today, she uses threads of the leftover resentment to make dresses that make her feel good. Each thread loses it's individual property and becomes part of a masterpiece. She is still fighting but she has come a long way. The fight with the others might be over, but the fight with her self is not.

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