I will not play. I will not play the game,
Make sport of it. I suffer to compete.
The fierce hot temper of the blood
Discomforts me: the breath of effort
Swells the chest; and I cannot please
Myself by saying, I had done my best.
A part of me, still young and vulnerable,
Fights and will not condescend to win…
And if temptation drags me to
The bloodlust, racing to the heart
Despite all urge, the yearning will,
I just will not allow myself the sheer,
Human delight, of fighting just to fight.
I am a bad sport. I am bad at sport. I am badly sporty, a dab stroppy, and I always hated Sports Day. Someone once asked my husband, “Do you even lift?” He replied, “Do you even read?” and therefore I can never leave him, ever.
(I also don’t have the strength to.)