paintball sonnet

You realize right away that if it didn’t hurt we wouldn’t call it fun.

“Fun”: horseshoed knots skimming slim skin, the harder your muscles

the tighter, the brighter the bruise. Cartoon pops

paint like blood bombs but tastes like those silicon beads that come

in vitamins that you’re not supposed to eat. All for the chance to _________.

So much sweat your facemask fogs on its smooth trip down your face.

I shot my boss right in the nuts: that was fun. Sort of. I felt kind of bad.

All for a reason to say now do you get why boys go to war? If it didn’t hurt

we wouldn’t call it fun but if they didn’t give us facemasks and rules and referees

we also wouldn’t call it fun: We’d call it that horrible game. Anyway. I got hit square

in the breast and it hurt. I awoke the next day with a headache for the ages.

That part about the paint’s taste? I made it up: I really don’t remember.

Advil cut the headache some.

I took pictures of my bruises and sent them to my friends.