Stalemates

Chess was a game that went unlearned.

Queens, and kings, and moves made in boxes.

Choices to be made and decisions to decide

by fingers that only have muscle memory

of trembling.

Any move I make is entirely wrong,

and the ones I make with my mouth

are that much worse.

Corners become my coroners and I am trapped —

advance, retreat, advance.

Your quick-wit is my better

and my emotions weigh heavy,

and all my strained eyes see

are losses stained in venom and blood.

There is no winning here

and my pride can’t taste defeat.

We play catch-release,

but I don’t remember how to say the word:

release.

This battle won’t end

until I give in

and swords are thrown,

and the chess board shatters

onto the floor.