Play. Don’t do right.
Tactics, rules, retaliate,
deductions and make heard.
Make it heard.
Once, spirit was a thing,
Coco Pop real
and I cherished skin tags
like design label lipstick.
Now, teams are numbers’ games
and I add up better than Duffy,
any of those super-good
word-people.
Because 5 is better than 4
and 4 is better than 3
and, target, I eliminate you
when you’re 15, 5 or 50.
Mess with me, fuck, I’ll
obliterate you
and discerning language
about you winning. Chance.
You’ll never fucking win this
You’ll never fucking win with me here
and it’s the good of somebody
at the stake. At stake.
The mistake I make
is taking advice
from someone’s authority
and again. I do it.
What I didn’t want:
impressionable knowing
rejection’s a package deal
in this life.
But they know it now.
There’s no saving. Not. Just
retaliational penalties and
“I’m glad you didn’t win.”
I’m glad you didn’t win.