The Prizefighters

If there is one thing I can't forgive
It's making me feel the weakest, and limp
I should've hit you like I meant it
But I can't hear over those words
I'd knock you for that, and your eye's going black

This kind of hate makes me sick
But I'm onto it, I'm onto it
My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it

My hook softening, as I listen
To the hollow sound that's drumming your ribs
I lose the grip on your neck
When it's over, and you're gone
I'm sitting and crying

This kind of hate makes me sick
But I'm onto it, I'm onto it
My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it

What was that meaning, that breaking of skin
Have I proven it, have I proven it?