Just pass me that medal for pretending I don’t see them
As their lurking eyes touch me with the softness of a heathen.
“Choice” is the one word I let myself forget each morning,
And it begs for a funeral, but their eyes despise mourning.
Just write me the red checks, pay me out in solid sorrow.
My pleased face makes my living, but it is only borrowed.
They see me as a person, but they know me as a trap,
And each time I leave, they find white roses in their laps.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 