“Envy” for 10 points

On Thursday evenings

we play scrabble on the living room floor.
Tucked legs, furrowed brows,
spilled song from our mouths.
Fluid moves, 

we are separated by love of sport.

Pushing down heads to keep ours above water.

She plays “MAZES.”
Tonight my own fingers will bruise my skin,
until it looks like a peach, bloated and rotting in the sun–
a self-appointed consequence for admiring her slim arms.

She will exhale, but air will fill my lungs.

I play “POINTED.”
I have always been lukewarm,
a room-temperature glass of water.

She will drink from that cup, but my taste of salt will disappear.

She plays “STARTER.”
In the fever of another summer, we drink beers.

We declare our lust for all things small.

Our complimentary love,
will always be plagued by competition.

Her thumbs dig into the orange, but I suck on its sweet flesh.

I play “JUICE.”
And one day,
our rings will clink 

as we hold hands over the body of one that looks just like ours. 

She ate an apple cut into small pieces before we left for the funeral.
I looked fat
and my lipstick was peeling.

She arranges the tiles to spell “EQUALIZE.” 

I flip the board and turn my face away.