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.