The Night I Took it Back
Some nights you don’t wake up planning...
Some nights you don’t wake up planning to become your own army.
You don’t look in the mirror thinking, Tonight, I fight.
But the night doesn’t care about your plans.
Sometimes it chooses you.
That night, it chose me.
He thought I was easy prey.
Homeless. Alone.
A soft mark with a bag full of nothing worth fighting for.
What he didn’t see was the weight inside that bag —
not the coins, not the smokes —
but the last threads of my dignity.
My survival, zipped up in a dirty pack.
He grabbed it like it was already his.
Turned his back like I’d fold.
Like the street hadn’t carved teeth into my spine.
What he didn’t know:
the street made me harder than him.
I chased him down.
No fear. Only fire.
Fists met gravel.
Breath turned to steam.
Knuckles split so my pride didn’t have to.
I took it back.
The bag.
The few dollars.
And the unspoken respect that says:
Not this one. Not tonight.
Did I win the fight? Maybe.
Did I win myself back? Absolutely.
People talk about “love and light.”
That’s real.
But so is the mud.
So is the blood you spill protecting what’s yours.
We don’t rise pretty.
We rise scarred.
Bruised.
Alive.
That’s Catfish Heads.
Ugly truths. Beautiful light.
If you’ve ever been cornered, counted out, dismissed —
if you’ve tasted copper in your mouth and decided no more —
You’re my people.
Stay standing.
Keep your head up.
Keep your bag close.
And remind the world:
You are not prey.
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