One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Count the cracks of your weapon on theirs in light and dark.

My hands need to move faster, body needs to dodge, legs to push forward.

One, two, three...

Fourth crack rings my ears.

The blow landed on the underside of my jaw, gnashing my teeth together. 

Every count I stand dazed another blow falls.

Bruises, breaks, and blood layer over and over each other everyday like the skirts of a fine gown now.

One, two, three, four.

If you drop your weapon, the dance is done.

Raw knuckles strain to keep mine in hand.

Rage swells as the current turns on me, but I've gotten use to the rage.

It's always there.

Anger makes me foolish, and I'm trying to be a little less of a fool.

Just swallow it with the rest.

Another long eight counts of a beating and a window opens.

Standing with their weapon raised, shoulder dropped, and head turned exposes the neck.

One.

A pop with stick to the windpipe drops my partner to their feet.

A few counts of a smile that can't quite be masked and the other's breath is back.

They're pushing forward.

My hands are bloodied, my body's slow, my legs are retreating.

One, two, three, four.