The Games We Play

When you first called me baby,

my stomach was punctured by Jacks.

Pain and bruises fluttered on my skin

as thumbprint butterflies.

When you held me down for the first time,

I thought it was just the way

Twister worked.

Relax, it's just a game.

When your hands reached the

skin above my pants,

I pushed them away.

It was just a game, right?

You weren't really going to—

When I first called you baby,

you left as a storm.

Dice hit the board like lightning,

the door thundered behind you.

You returned the next day as

a smile

as an apology.

I waited as forgiveness a

kiss on the cheek

as your baby.

When I called you baby a second time,

you pinned me down.

There was no game this time,

except me

with you as the dealer

the cards calculated in your movements.

When I called you baby a third time,

I broke down the door.

Took the dice,

I became thunder

and rain.

I took the bruises back.

Called them Battleship

called them Survival.

When I call you baby,

do not mistake it as a term of endearment.

You are a Pawn

and this Queen must take care of you.

When are we going to call a Spade a rapist?

Or let me claim Monopoly on myself

tell you I'm not Sorry

watch as you Scramble for a piece of me

to grab onto and play

as a Straight.

But, I'm tired of games.

So call me Operator,

call me Revenge

or fucking Assassin

and I will call you baby.