°•. playing hurt by matt robinson
each shift another gauze-white lie you tell
yourself, a minor falsehood you put on by rote:
one that rarely catches your eye. but surely,
these fibs to ourselves are the ones we should see —
steely-eyed — through, if only we’d half-chance;
if we’d bother to take a slow, deep breath and look
up or away from the run of the play — this
odd-manned rush, the drawn glide and slash of
this tumult against which we’ve tensored ourselves.
but no: you’re now stitched in place.
chin strapped and sewn ragged, but sure, in
a ragtag, frayed-jersey quilt: one you’ve piece-pinned
together for show. a necessity, this.
the cool, dark art of our self-deception: its
grimace-quickening flex against the bruise-new
tightness that seizes this crux in your chest. but
perhaps, this is all — in the end — for the best,
these half-truths you project on the mirroring
rink. some would venture a guess it’s because
of that twinge you refuse to address, the one
stabbing your strides towards or away — that pang
and its twist you chose to protect— that you
barely, just barely, over the course of the game, begin
to see a new sense coalesce; you begin, more or
less, to acknowledge one thing: the cold, blade-thin
line between injured and hurt. that subtle difference.