Finite Games

And I used to love to get all prettied up
in my tulle skirts and hard bones, those
white-knuckled knobs twisting and jutting
forth from my thin skin like gnarled tree branches,
or bubbling forth like a knurl of warty witch skin.
And I wore my scars like jewelry,
the bijoux of broken logic, cataclysmic cognitive
failure in the cavernous purples and frightening
whites of my marbled scar tissue arms.
I wanted to embody that beautiful sadness,
that dark stain of romantic blood. But I didn’t understand
depth and darkness and I still don’t,
though I’d like to think I have a better grasp of context.
I fight
against falling back to the complacence.
I know that it is not fully in my control.
I’m
changing
my
perspective.
I’m
seeing colors that were always there. I’m breaking
up the pieces and finding new fits, letting go as flow.
I’m deciding that
this finite game is now infinite.