I write this for you, Champ. Because you won this last game. I sat here solitary, pushing your pieces across the checker board in the way that I imagined you would want them—and you're still beating me. There's nothing tactical to it. I'm here and you're, where you are, climbing ladders fucking snakes. Slide, right?
I wanted to tell you that a part of me, the part that craves a tall vanilla sky with my protein shake, is twisting inside my guts en rotisserie. There's a feeling like a Ferris Wheel and then you're done, climbing into an addict's dream for anything that will stop the relentless hungry throb. I get the sweetest fleeting glimpses of codeine and cocaine. I want someone's supreme opiate, but I'm sure you're aware.
Because you lost your game, too. I'm gripping the table and puking up my Baja Chicken Tacos. "It's the Flu of the season". You smile at me in the car and suddenly I'm bulimic. You didn't know the end was coming with those teeth across your face.
Set your twenty pieces on a 10x10 board.
Hey.
Are you okay.
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Eaten the ball and the chain, I've cement encased within this so slight chest.
The cycles are an age apart, every hour, every hour. Slow then frantic beat, thumps beneath the plastic poppy, tune shared in kind
with
The thing that wouldn't leave,
Drowning.
Suffocated and tied
by covers
.
but they smelled nice i guess so no complaints?
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