when something brittle plays the game
their scars become opponents
threatening to cut the gauze
where precious skin was broken.
when something used takes their turn
how but they feel a waste
stripped clean of their identity
with nothing left to take.
when something havened rolls the die
inept to discern numbers
their shelter fortified in time
is only bound to crumble.
when something sorrowed moves their piece
their hand quivers with woe
with inkling that of all these spaces
they have nowhere to go.
Copyright © 2015 Maddy Stillman