Jacks

She is in her room,

alone,

playing jacks.

-

Throws one in the air.

Catches as many as she can.

The game is simple. The game is cruel.

-

Skip one.

He is Jack.

Skin scraped,

dirt-bitten knees and broken nails.

Streetlights buzz like flies,

but the game never ends.

Throw, catch, skip, pick.

Laughter tastes like metal,

like coins on the tongue.

Forever feels close.

Then it doesn't.

-

Skip two.

Jack is now she.

Or they. Or neither.

Not enough for their family.

Too much for the street.

The door slams,

but hers stays open.

Jack lies on the floor,

bones sharp beneath thin fabric.

They still play jacks by moonlight,

stones clacking like teeth,

as if the game can stitch together

what the world rips apart.

-

Skip three.

Jack is love.

Soft on her skin, sharp on the tongue.

In love, in battle.

They throw words like bricks,

march with fists that learn to bruise.

Jacks scatter across the floor,

Placards slam beside them,

their love a small, burning riot—

within the bigger one.

They kiss like it’s war.

They fuck like it’s surrender.

Every moment is a stone held tight.

-

Skip four.

Jack is dead.

Stones like splinters,

heavy in their pocket.

Broken on the street,

for daring to exist,

for holding a rainbow.

The coppa walks free,

shaking blood from his boots.

Jack stays trapped,

beneath dirt, beneath justice,

beneath everything that pretends not to see.

The game is over.

But of course, it never is.

-

Skip five.

The stones fall like memories,

like grief that cuts

and keeps cutting.

How many can she catch—

in one bruised fist?

Jack occupies the corner,

like rot she waters, waiting for it to bloom—

still waiting for their turn—

which will never come.

-

She picks up the last stone,

bites down until it hurts.

“I’m still here,” she says,

but it’s just her.

And the jacks.

And a shadow,

black-rooted and clawing,

stitched deep beneath her ribs.

.