They monitor my photos for a whisper of a rumor,
Then go and spill my worst stories over some tea.
The crowds laugh it off, but I do not see the humor,
And their soulless screens will not get my sympathy.
My silence is offensive, so they tell me to scream.
My rage is a currency they exchange on weekends.
Their judgements come at me in one whirling beam,
And I know they desire for me to start bleeding.
Do they know I rip out my hair as I lay awake?
Their small-town politics are making my skin peel.
They already know it all, what else is there to take?
Tear apart my existence, it is free for you to steal.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 