Spare a Bullet?

 

I’m playing Jenga and I’ve decided

it’s the child’s version

of Russian roulette

 

because she’ll never stop

not when one block falls

not when they all fall.

 

She wants to see it collapse.

 

But when it doesn’t fall,

when the blocks stand alone

I see the skeleton,

a poor man’s skyscraper.

 

Imagine, scraping the sky like

pavement does on that same girl’s knee.

 

The skeleton seems prettier than the tower

and I think it’s because those decorative pieces are gone

sort of the way that

an unadorned Christmas tree has its own standard of elegance.

 

So I think I’ll play Russian roulette,

or Jenga, if that makes you more comfortable,

with the broken pieces of myself

the ones with no more usefulness than the mascara on my lashes.

 

I think I’ll strip myself bare

and be like that poor man’s skyscraper

and just you wait.

 

Because I’ll rip the sky open like not even the Burj Khalifa can.

 

I’ll spin cylinders and pull blocks

and I’ll do it as long

as I am

alive.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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