One-Nothing

At times, I allow myself to believe
That I am powerful.
Able to suss out a reaction,
Able to strike a match.

The illusion that the subtle motions
(To which I commit hours, plotting)
Are yielding the desired result.

At times, I lose track
Of the score.

The idea that I play the game
Of my sovereign will,
That I am an active participant at all.

I don't always remember
Your power, or my lack of self-restraint,
But your every condescending prod gives me
Pause.

And the reality of
The
Whole
Thing.

You don't even leave a screaming-red souvenir,
Just tangle up my hair,
And I remember,
We're one-oh.