You’ve never laid a hand on me.

Wouldn’t dream of it, in actuality. You’re far too kind for that. But you’ve left more bruises on this tarnished soul than an elementary student should ever be able to count, a mere child playing this game you’ve created where the rules are yours and the pieces are yours and the turn is yours and, ultimately, the victory will always be yours. A shattered facade I spend every one of your twelve-hour shifts trying to slowly piece back together before your put-off panic goes against it’s nature of setting in and explodes into an agonizing glare that sends the shrapnel of my heart into those I love, including you, my flesh and blood. And I pick the pieces out of your steel skin with a practiced precision while you sleep, and once you’re complete I assemble the puzzle of my old rusty smile and take my turn in the game you’ve already won. We’ve created a game of tortured smiles and hordes of denial, a game fought with words so sharp they catch in our teeth and destroy their very creators faster than a small town dream crumbles under the weight of reality. Not all games are a battle that has to be won. And we both know no one told us this was going to be fun, but you need a stiff upper lip, and to tighten your grip on reality, on the fact that we don’t have dream salaries, on the truth behind the false hope of dependency, because it seems you think we’ll never be here for you, even though we always are.