It (#Wattys2016)

a dollar lacking

You spit out my name like

It's that over-greased, excessively sweet chocolate donut

Enclosed within one of those

Pretty heart-shaped boxes the texture of glass,

Decorated with such yellow, such dainty

Ribbons.

In your azure coloured shirt, sewn together with

The fine silk threads of the skies

And your obsidian slacks that have barely

Breathed a day,

You look at me as if I

Were indeed nothing but a nuisance,

When in fact

I was one of your group too.

I may not have a reputation constructed of

Sparkling glass trophies,

Glowing gold and silver and bronze

Nor do I have the adoring circle of fans

Constantly begging my attention and just

A bit of my time.

And yet, yes.

I still am a part of your group.

I have every right to open

This apparent amateurish, curious mouth to just

Ask even one question without

Being shoved into a random job that I

Never had the luxury of accepting.

I may be a junior

But I was never your slave.

There's a solemn difference between a human being

And your fancy, polished property.

I have a voice.

Yet still, like the wrinkled dollar bill that

Protrudes from your wallet,

I am thrown away, forgotten surely but

Happy.

I never did do well pampered anyway.