Salt water drips down draining the fluid

From storage supplies.

Drizzling down the face,

Stinging the determined eyes and

From the forehead on to the mat;

Drip. Drop. Drip.

Muscles tensing with power,

As the body is squatted.

Hands grip tightly on either side.

The bar causing friction,

Tearing the smooth skin.

Face pulling into the center,

Eyes closed, grunts escaping.

Moving swiftly the bar rises.

She clings to people and says, Look

Look what I accomplished today.

Looking at her, saying are you okay?

Scowling at their reaction;

She hears the trumpets sound,

She’s hearing the gates open

And the light shining through.

She’s proud of her hands.

She rubs them together

And the pads are like the desert, bone dry.

Her Knuckles a deep red from the strength

And the friction of raising the bar to new heights.

Ripples in the once smooth surface

That from the fight of achievement,

She’s claimed what is rightfully hers:

Trophies.

The imperfect untouched skin on her hands

Is now flawless with blemishes.

From hard work and pursuement

Of the dream: of being stronger.

She laughs at them their fear and says

With Head high, chin up and hands spread wide,

These are my hands

These brought me here

These are my trophies

Not wounded but stronger

These lead me here

And they are flawless

Strong, muscular, imperfect, blemished

Beat up, and stronger than ever before.

They built me to who I am

They show the world that I am not here

By some chance or some luck

But through blood, sweat, tears,

And sheer determination I have arrived

My hands, My body constant reminders

Of my goals and what it took,

To achieve them

My wounds—trophies

My hands, My Body

Flawless.