If your game was to steal my voice, you win.
Words flew like great winged bats
From the cavernous recesses of my soul
Out the gaping open mouth of my empty head
Into the approaching darkness.
Flying for an eternity.
If your game was to collect me, I lose.
I gifted myself like a spoiled toddler's Christmas parcel
Wrapped in shiny paper and ribbons.
Cooed over briefly, then torn to shreds,
And left in a heap on the floor.
The toy, too, abandoned for another.
Each thickens the scars that are becoming my new skin.