by Rachel Lee Etienne Girardet Of winning battles only to lose the war I hear them whisper. The ones in my mind, I hear them creep. Monday morning, love, I am not good enough. Friday night, darling, I think I’ve pushed too hard. I play at house —  the kind to live in, the kind to represent —  squirm on the same feedback: don’t put your soul into it. They say nunchi is a subtle art. The eye teaches you to feel in an airless room, seeking secrets writ plain in the in-between. H