rock, paper, scissors

i ask if you want to play a game

a hands-on display

so i ball my fist

and make my play

but you lay your hand flat

to my dismay

why does a paper-covered rock

call for a doomsday?

the rules are set

and the winner is clear

but the paper does no damage

and yet it fills me with fear

my rock now invisible

while you smile and cheer

i am rendered useless

wishing i could reappear

i thought about the game

and the rock inside of me

the paper no longer your hand

but a sentence with no plea

i live with this sentence silently

while they spew words at me

“bipolar”

“medication”

“lifetime”

i just want to be free