journal · poetry

The Game

What makes it right?
What makes it better?
The sharp edges of this night
cut through me like I’m butter.
Until I’m worn and thin,
melting in this twilit sin.
I can see that you don’t get it,
but then again,
you never did.
I made a play for something better –
had to hit it.
The clock was eating hours;
it still is.
And there was nothing to be done
except give in.
I made a play for something better –
couldn’t quit it.
But I had three small things
that let me win:
I dared.
I didn’t care.
And in the end,
I’ll never share
this with you.

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