Sludge, my mother called it.
Said my face would crack if I smiled.
I did more than smile;
I laughed as his fist
fractured more than my war-paint.

Now left on these tissues,
and under my nails,
across the back of his hand
is more than my usual sludge.

I grip hot metal
with more than my usual strength.

With less bravado than before
he takes two steps
crumples.

And matter more intricate
than his filthy speech falls
from one more hole in his head.