Chess pieces

There is injustice in the game of chess.

Your privilege always makes the first move.

My move takes a step back.

Call me the colour...black.

Unfaded.

Midnight blue.

But dawn enough.

Keen enough to use the tricks he dun' gave me.

But he is morning.

White knight is morning.

Black knight is mourning.

I am a king.

But I am a queen.

I lay my Xs like the bishop.

To the system, I am a pawn.

To the brothers, I am an option.

But to my mother, I am golden.

You are the jury.

Unable to reach a verdict.

The game of chess is an honest inventory of where we are.

Our rights are at often times used against us.

A left turn will always lead me towards the left because right doesn't feel right anymore.

And my mourning knight gave up on me.

He stuck himself in the middle, moving counterclockwise.

How I wonder...?

How I wonder?

What time is it in his head?

I wonder why rook moves in the shape of a cross when he doesn't believe in God.

I wonder why black king always strives to win but cages himself in a square, in a box.

When we were never meant to live in boxes.

This system may not have done me right, but I refuse to hear white knight's privilege speak against the vehemence of me being a black woman.

Unfaded.

Midnight blue.

But dawn enough.

I am a king, but I am a queen.

So I make all the right moves.

Just to capture what was once yours.

I've checked them all.

Decked them all.

Blocked them all.

Removing favours.

The system can no longer use its pieces against me.

Because there's more trial and error in a courtroom than on those going to trial.

Love,

I am game.

Checkmate.