She owed them a pretty picture
Her soul was pretty injured
She sold it but never got richer
She kept it hid under a fancy fixture
The ones who buy it always get triggered
Pointing at you with their middle finger
Too far away you can’t hear them whisper
The season there is a permanent winter
With a sign that reads “winner winner”
You’ve been fed that lie since you were a beginner

© Delia Ross. 2019