I Think the Queen Just Cried

A game I never wanted, against versions of me I can’t beat.

The roof leaks memory,
the ceiling peels in dreams,
and the floor is a chessboard.

Some days, I am the queen.
swift, sharp,
cutting through obstacles,
unstoppable.
Getting there.

Other days, I am the king.
not for power, but for the heaviness.
Moving slow,
more running than confronting.

Often, I’m a pawn.
small, easily sacrificed, used.
And being okay with it.
There’s more where that came from.
More pieces I can give away.
More fragments to scatter on the board.
more of me to cast aside when it’s convenient.

C-PTSD is the clock ticking beside the board;
loud, relentless, even when I pause.
They say it’s turn-based,
but sometimes all the pieces move at once,
and I freeze.

High-functional depression; that’s playing twelve games at once,
smiling across every table,
while I forget which version of me already won.
So we burn ourselves out.
Because that’s what we do.

Sometimes my body is the piece that won’t move,
no matter how well I know the board,
no matter how easy to read the opponent is.
sleep paralysis just knows the rules better than me.

Insomnia is watching the board all night,
replaying every move I should have made,
until the sun rises.
and I still don’t know who’s winning.
Considering high-functional depression, probably me.

We’re tired, but insomnia isn’t done watching,
and sleep paralysis knows a loophole anyway.
C-PTSD decided a rigged clock isn’t good enough of an obstacle,
so have a rigged board instead.

Anxiety plays both sides.
Moves my pieces and theirs.
It’s not the worst, but more often than not,
really problematic.

Paranoia’s the audience.
She doesn’t even sit; paces around the board barefoot and bleeding,
leaving footprints in places I haven’t even moved yet.
She claps when I flinch.

Self-hate plays dirty.
kicks the table when she’s losing,
flips the board C-PTSD is still rigging continously.
She calls me pawn, even when I’m the queen,
even when I’m the whole fucking board.

I don’t know who I’m playing against anymore.
I don’t know which hands are mine.
Everyone looks familiar.
Everyone looks like me.

Life is a haunted game with rules that rot mid-match.

And still, I reset the pieces.
Call it healing. Call it hope. Call it madness.
Probably madness.

Or maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s just that “Stop it already” just won’t cut it anymore.
Not because I don’t want it to stop,
but because functional aphasia stole the damn words again.

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