The Constant Struggle

Victoria Toscano

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Taking a Detour

The crowd uproars as if a tsunami is approaching.
In my peripheral vision, a wave makes its way across the stands.
A shoulder crashes against mine.
Gravity is now thrusting my body toward the ground.
Beaming into my eyes, the stadium lights cause dizziness to implode my body.
My back sears with pain pulsing up the curves of my spine, as adrenaline is the only battle I have left.
Each and every one of my allies has been knocked down,
I must,
Go. Fight. Win.
I force my mind to overcome my body, and get up.
With the shock inducing shade of crimson upon the skin of each warrior,
And agony cringed on every face,
It’s clear.
They are our rival; our only chance to fight.
Fortitude fills the depths of my epitome.
Go. Fight. Win.
Go. Fight. Win.
They’re clothed in green and white.
Green and white.
The colors;
They distract me,
But no I must,
Go. Fight. Win.
A nearby ally collapses, dwindling athwart my knees, as if bowing.
Trudging through the smog, my lungs feel heavy.
Nostalgia is the one definition in my existence.
Go. Fight. Win.
Go! Fight! Win!
Go! Fi–

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