The Game

 Be careful, I will turn you into poetry...

What's it like to be enthralled? To be consumed? To give and receive equally? To float in the sea of longing, thirsty - and to be quenched. All at once, everyday? He is the villain in this story. He is the trickster, the wolf cheating the sheep that he won't eat them, but in the dead of night, he went straight for their throats. He was a stranger, searched you up looking for danger. And you knew that those who love, love to death. Are you dying?

What's it like to burn without a flame? To ache with the weight of  a hunger that starves you, even as you feast at the idea of 'him?' To press your palms against the ghost of his touch, only to find a cold, cold emptiness? He is the thief who slips in through the crack of your ribs, stealing breath, stealing sleep.

When you think of ignoring him- for an hour, a day or perhaps a week- remember baby its no contact for you, but a regular day for him. Why did you have to tie your whole mood to him? How you feel during the day, what you do when he doesn't text, your anticipation for when he said he would call (he didn't). You were trying too much, and to him, you would never be enough. 

Interlude

Two suspects are arrested for a crime and held in separate rooms. The police officer offers each one of them a deal. If one confesses, and the other stays quiet, the confessor goes free and the silent one gets a harsher sentence. If they both confess, they both receive a moderate sentence. If both stay silent, they receive a lighter sentence. In each of these, confessing therefore, is the dominant strategy. Should either of the suspects confess? There you have it, The Prisoner's Dilemma. 

If both of you chose devotion, you would find paradise. You knew it as sure as the sun would rise. But he decided for both of you that paradise was a cage. So while you risked your feeble heart, he played the defector, kissing you. The tragedy wasn't betrayal, it was knowing that he wanted this from the start. He'd always known that the only way to win The Game, was to watch you lose. The game demanded a victim, he made sure it was not him. 

End

You knew the game, you knew the rules, yet you willingly played anyway. When he looked at you, like you were both sin and salvation- he made you believe, just for a fleeting moment, that you could be the exception. But exceptions are for fools, and love is for the birds. So tell me, when he kisses you like a man savouring his last meal, do you taste the goodbye on his lips?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An especially quiet night. The street looked smudged by rain. A street light, flickering, swaying like a drunk firefly, its glow coming in and out of existence. The air smelled damp, with the scent of petrichor. Wet. The shadows were stretching and shrinking- as if the night itself could not decide what to hide. You were seated on the pavement, not caring that it was damp or that it was getting late. You just wanted to soak in the moment. 

You asked yourself why you let him, and all the hims before him use you. To tell you those sweet nothings, to fill your head with dreams of an unattainable future. To make you want him, to make you need him, and when the crescendo rises to a climax, him would leave you. Destitute. Alone. Weary. Bruised by longing, sick with the aftertaste of his false devotion.  With feelings you could not comprehend. You are tired of this game, where you are always the loser. So tell me, why does your heart still race when the next one says your name like it means something? 

You remember the bass pulsing like a second heartbeat, and the quiet thrum of alcohol in your veins. The sound was thick, heavy in this shisha filled air. Men were gyrating their hips to the backs of the thighs of their current interests. Bodies were moving in the dark, slick with sweat and the promise of something reckless😏. Your friend had infuriatingly forced you to come, and although she did not make you drink (you consumed of your own accord)- she forced you to move your two right feet. That's where you met him. 

"The clurrbb is not the best place to fall in love..." its ringing in the speakers- but none of you are listening. He was untouched by the chaos around him. His smile was slow, deliberate. He knew what he was doing. His face was partly covered by the fall of his hair, he wiped his tongue out and wet his lips. When your gaze trailed the outline of his face, you were a goner. It was carved with the kind of precision that made poets fumble for words- high and defiant cheekbones, straight nose, a full brow, that flashy smile and god those lips🫦. Those god awful lips. They were full, almost cruel in their perfection, caught between a smirk and a promise. And then you locked eyes. Eyes that flickered with intelligence and danger. He wasn't handsome, you remember. That was too tame a word. He was beautiful. The kind of man that would make you forget your own name, not because he would ask, but because you knew you would offer it .

Suddenly there was a hand at the small of your back, firm and warm through the fabric of your shirt, and you arched to the touch, breath hitching as you brushed his chest. There was an intense heat, and your thighs were sliding close, then retreating, only to come back with more intent. He led you, and you followed. The rhythm was intoxicating, the tumble of control and surrender, and you knew you were playing with fire. Even then, you didn't want to stop. Let the fire burn you. And it did. 

There was no grand exit, no final fights, just the deafening silence of a phone screen that never lit up with his name. No quick morning texts, no promises to call (he never did). The last you heard of him was when he told that he would never let you be in this alone, that he would level up his skills just for YOU. So you waited, at first with a lil irritation, then a growing need, then the dread settled in. After, the truth settled like ash in your lungs- You had been erased.

You curse why you remember he plays paddle on Mondays with his brother. You cringe at the realization of knowing that he wanted to join a bookclub to "meet new people." (Perhaps that's where he met your replacement?)You are now replaying every moment, searching for clues in his last texts, days before, your last kiss, his last embrace. The way those beautiful hands with deft fingers had cradled your face a little too gently, like you were already something fragile, broken, defeated. All for the Game. 

You remember how the hours bled into days, into weeks, and you got used to his absence. Will you laugh the same way you did with the new one>? Will you starve yourself for love and affection just because you know its already rigged? Maybe he's different you tell yourself. Perhaps not. If you were to meet him when you're horse riding, would there be a flicker of emotion? That glint of recognition or would it be the casual cruelty of men? 

You think to yourself that you had been devoured. Swallowed whole. And the worst part? You'd let it happen, Willingly. Hungrily. Somewhere deep inside, you know you would do it all again. Now that you're wiser, you know the rules. You know what you want. You're tired of playing. This isn't sustainable. It isn't life. One last time couldn't hurt right?

*Insert pleasantry here*


A. M.