Checkmate

Something’s burning my fingertips,
something hot is lapping at my flesh.

My teeth,
Off-white and rotting,
rest on yours.
I like to think we’ve got a similar pollen drifting about us.
I like to think we’ve got that germ,
that same hideous germ.

But when you’ve let sleep take your queen,
I know I must be tainted with something different,
with something that writhes and paces,
something that squirms out of tucked-in sheets.

Somehow through our fray,
I’ve remained tender to your strikes.
By this I am both relieved
and horrified.
All my pawns have been spent,
All my knights have been eclipsed.

At the edges of our front,
wraithlike gardenias flower,
blushing as they drink up our redness.
Letting their necks bow and their leaves curl,
they cower as we bleed.

In these moments, I think your heart dwells in my ears,
Beating against thin drums,
drowning out my noise.
How ugly it is
to hear a battle cry unmade,
to hear an unholy sob in the silence.

I suppose we shouldn't be here.
I suppose this means we’ve taken all of each other’s pieces.
A black and white checkered stalemate
with prisoners and trembling bishops in their robes of dark and light.

But now,
something’s burning at my wrists, at my lips
and my tongue.
I think I’ll burn up any minute now.
In the red fever spilling over me,
I look to my hands.

In one,
the ashy skeleton of a cigarette.

In the other,

your king.