Suicidally,

Suicidally, 
I tempted fate 
and tested you 
a bit too late. But you 

have won this joust, this round 

and I will never take you down. 

You are my better. Best, in fact 
I cannot fall where you hold back, 
when you make bank, or check
at chess, to mate. But at your contemptuous,
contemptible ease, I hate 

sometimes, the fact  

that you could lay me 
six feet thick, oh 

please. 

Not that. Unless,
you want. At that, it isn't coy. 
Not droll. It's fatalist 
inevitable, and that's 

the sound, as I fall down. 
I am, or should be 
to you 

as
a vegetable. 

Except 
I was much more than this,
at once. Or relatively.
Comparison's a bitch,
and odious,

they say. 
But I 
can't 
see

even 

one way.