They called it Proposal 41,
a fix for the treasury, or so they said.
Nine wallets signed it before the sun
rose on East Asia. Twenty million bled
out through a door that governance forgot
to lock, though someone coded it unlocked
on purpose. My mother's rice cooker clicks a pot
of steam while I refresh, refresh, then mock
myself for refreshing. We voted YES because
the interface was clean, the logo cute,
a dog, of course, it's always a dog because
we chase the tail and call the chase our route
to something real. Still here. Still logged back in.
Twice bitten, and somehow still voting again.

The forum thread runs forty pages deep
by morning. Someone posts a spreadsheet, red
and damning, tracing where the twenty sleep
in wallets numbered, cold and freshly bred
for laundering. A mod says stay calm, please,
we're looking into it, the standard line
that every rug pull learns to speak with ease,
the corporate hush inside a discord shrine.
My auntie asks me why I trust a stranger's
code more than she trusts her own bank teller.
I don't have an answer that's not dangerous
to say out loud. I mute the thread. I let her
think I've learned my lesson. Then I check
the price at 2 a.m. Still here. Still wrecked.