Like a show-girl in a short skirt
soft skin scintillating in the absence of capital
I gorge on the idea of more
The Devil lending his hand to the already market-sick trader
She spoke in percentages
her voice sweet with the smell of easy money
“I could triple your buying power, honey, easy.”
Then she whispered promises of freedom, wealth, transcendence
Who was I to say no?
But I know these are just skyscrapers built on foundations of sand
houses made of paper cards
borrowed waves of relief that hold steady only until the market tides turn with a vengeance
It’s intoxication and escalating tolerance
risk-induced euphoria
Leverage is a false god
and margin is the original sin
Enabling synthetic courage is seduction before destruction
And I am Icarus flying too close to the sun.
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