i will play this game.

they say mornings are
a clean slate - patient and waiting
for excruciating drama, strenuous
plays; an exorcism of sorts.

i am tired of being a chess piece
fragile and rigid all at once
  - easily toppled over
at the slight of unsightly hands.

but
my little brother once told me
         of a hero
who wasn't wrought of brittle comic
and wore her ebony hair in a pony
wielding an air-katana 刀.

it took a while to understand
that the her was all 5 foot 4 of me
and if someone believed
i could-

i truly could.

he takes my light promises
and fists them tightly over bound skin and muscle
you'll protect me from a zombie
apocalypse, right?  ofcourse. ofcourse.

A gross underestimation
that winds its way down my esophagus
and lines my insides; the honest truth?
i'd do anything for him.

and despite the war ahead, i know
there is a certain bravery
that bleeds in with the realization
_{there's something to lose.}