Sparring with Ghosts (Revised)

You offered to help.
I paused.
Said, no, it’s okay -
afraid I’d mess it up.
Your eyes -
winded me,
left panic in its place.
I smiled instead.
Then took it out on the bag.

Now, every time I wrap my hands,
I think of that moment.
How close we were.
Your hands on mine -
Almost.

How easy it would’ve been
to just let you.
To feel you
pull the cloth firm,
shield my knuckles
before I struck.

It wasn’t about the wraps.
It was about you,
leaning in,
and me,
pulling back.

That moment won’t return.
But regret still lands -
a clean hook
to the ribs -
every time I wrap my hands.

So I take it out on myself,
sparring with ghosts -
every strike
a sentence.
Every breath
a penance.

Burned hands,
bruised silence.
Like I earned it.
Like I asked for it.