Everybody knows who they are until they lose.
But if I scrape together my earnings I have enough to show for at least a little time where things were probably true, and ok
It wasn’t the proudest I’ve been. Probably not even the second.
But my score is woven so deeply into the fabric of how people consume me that I shudder when they put the fork down before
they’re done.
I’m done too.
Too well for anyone’s taste and especially not my own. No one’s famished anymore they all ate what was up first.
Mediocrity spills out of me like a fountain rotting from the underneath. Nothing can be contained forever, least of all shame.
I can plug it up with all the sacred earth and dead flowers that I want. It’s still a broken vessel. It will still be an obnoxious mess that begs for demolition.
No one will care enough to even destroy it.

It will feel the seasons and cry the graffiti off of its sides while the moss grows over. No longer serving its purpose, it begs to be gazed at. Lounged on. Wondered about how beautiful and useful it was before time tore it down.