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Piled On
If you keep climbing the hill,
You are going to wear it down
Or get used to the elevation.
I know this could be
A victory if
I’m able to live
To explain it to them.
But maybe that’s what
Prevents this from being victory.
Poetry as record
Or failure.
You as the woman
Who would embrace
Or diminish
Just by enveloping.
These were cruel games
And you said
They were the same game.
You told me this is living.
Or maybe these are the games you play
When you give up on living.
I gave up on living
Because if not
I knew they’d see me.
They see
A calm ghost now.
I know it’s my victory.
I don’t know if
I wore down the hill
But I’m used to the elevation,
Even with the dirt
Piled on.
