I hate May
and the way you purr your words through the oppressive warmth
that galvanizes my skin like marble.
Your instincts are Darwinian
even as survival is inevitable
when no one can touch you.
If it’s a matter of life and death, we can be sure it won’t matter
who
you’ve placed in your guillotine
as long as the platter is silver and set for a feast.
I’ll be the last to know when you’ve made Queen
but the first to feel
it’s over.
Though nothing ever ends, we just replay our losses with new pawns.

I hate being right
especially about you.