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a game that no one wins
i liked to think of you
as one of those russian nesting dolls -
matryoshka dolls, my historian of a
grandmother insisted they were called.
i liked to think of your secrets
as all the other, smaller dolls,
building up in thin coats of wood,
because after all, a matryoshka
doll is not one without the others.
i liked to entertain myself with your layers,
trying to find the courage to dig up the one
beneath that one and that one
but i have to realize that
you are not a matryoshka doll
because you are made of skin and love from your mother,
not dead trees with eyes painted on
and you have depth and character and limitations
and your smallest doll is what i see at first.
your biggest one's at your core.
i liked to think of you as a game -
a child's game - how long will i be able to
ignore all your other, intriguing layers?
how long until you finally break because you
don't like being torn down, then built up,
and then demolished again? how many dolls do you
have stacked up? what happens when i
get
to the
last one?
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