when i am crying,
my hair is always perfectly straight and gold
and with each sob,
another strand falls out of place,
adding to the futility of the situation.

my eyes become red,
my mind enraged,
and i feel a physical wave of hatred
and vengeful desire sweep over me,
and in that moment my soul lurches forward
like a ride at an amusement park
but my body sits exactly where it sits.

i want to deprive your fleshy pink lungs of air
until they turn the crusty eggplant black
that your impossible heart must be,
and i want to tell you just to spite,
because you know the pain of raking your hair
until your scalp turns red
and fastidiously choosing and unchoosing a tee shirt,
and my winning the game

would break your ego.

alas, i lose as often as you,
only winning the games that you play
and refusing to tell you.