Why Aren't You a Fighter?

I’ve been a martial artist,
Since I was 11.
I’ve done a little bit of everything,
Taekwondo, HapKiDo, Aikdo,
Brazilian Juijitsu, Judo, and Muay Thai.
The most common thing,
That I hear once someone finds out,
(after they ki-yah and fane being Bruce Lee)
Is “so why aren’t you a fighter?”
I always smile “who me?”
Then they’ll smile back,
“Yeah, you’re pretty big,”
“You look really strong,”
“I’ve seen how high you kick,”
“Why don’t you fight?”
Depending on where I am,
And who I’m with,
And, of course, my mood for the day,
I have different responses,
For every occasion.
I might say back arrogantly,
“What I know is too dangerous.”
My vanity may strike instead,
“I like my face the way it is.”
Perhaps my ego takes a jab,
“I’m smarter than that.”
I have dozens more,
That I can break off at a whim,
Like a professional fighter snapping a limb.
The answer,
Really,
Is simpler than that.
One that saves me less face,
And taps my confidence out.
Truth is I’m lazy.
I don’t have the work ethic to fight.
Those guys spend each day,
And each night,
In a cage or a ring,
On the track in the weight room,
Just for one thing.
They want to win.
They must to survive.
They define themselves that way.
It keeps them alive.
Because for a fighter,
The dream isn’t to hurt someone else,
It’s to be first.
Never last.
That goal is the thing,
That I’ve never had,
And I’ll never fight,
Because I don’t want it that bad.
The competition is in me.
Sportsmanship too.
But the single minded desire,
To take oneself higher,
Than everyone else in a heavily stacked,
Peer group of muscle bound,
Jackhammer fighting machines.
Is something,
In me,
That just doesn’t glean the slightest of interest.
The tiniest of motivations.
Not even an ounce,
Let alone 16,
Strapped to my wrists,
Covering fists,
Ready to prove that they are the strongest,
Above everyone else.
I’m not a fighter,
Not because I’m not good,
But because I’m not good enough,
To focus on any one thing,
Long enough to achieve it.
I don’t fight,
Because I’d rather have everyone think I can,
Without having to prove it.
I suppose I do want to keep my face the way it is,
But not because I think I’m so good looking,
That it would harm my,
Obviously non-existent,
Modeling career.
But because,
My self confidence isn’t all thanks to myself.
A lot of it comes from what other people seem to think,
Or sometimes say,
About me.
So in order to stay a rock,
I need people to think I’m a rock.
My inner monologue tends to be a vicious color commentator,
Breaking down my every move,
So I need the fans to keep asking,
“Why aren’t you a fighter?”
So that when I find myself in my corner,
Getting stitched up and iced down,
I remember that someone else thinks I’m good enough.
And,
For now,
That’s good enough for me.