I don’t like losing.
I hate the feeling.
It starts like a slow, murky itch.
Coursing from my gut, impairing my speech.
I babble a little. Move though I sit.
Words flake. No pitch. Thank heavens for my seat.
I don’t like losing.
I remember the feeling.
The cold dart, sticky throat.
Eyes peered, like daggers both.
The regret of time, the loss of mine.
Seconds took hours. Heaven’s fine.
I don’t like loosing.
Especially the feeling,
when she looks and says: “Let’s just be friends”.
Yeah, right, let’s play pretend.
She smiles, successful.
I stand, perplexed. “Is she remotely remorseful?”
I don’t like losing.
I guard my feelings.
Maybe that’s why I smile so easily.
It eases the lies and tricks everyone lightly.
To think I’m gay,
That I am not a bird of prey.
I don’t like losing.
I sweat the feeling.
Defeat makes me interrogate myself.
My choices, my dreams and all on my shelf.
The chances I lost and how far I have come,
Using the bottom to the stronger I have become.