O sacred chart, O candle painted red
past every floor I swore I wouldn't see,
hello again, old friend. We meet at $58.
My mother asks why I'm still staring at my phone past midnight
and I tell her it's for work, which technically is true
if work means watching $1.3 trillion
evaporate like the steam off her rice cooker,
gone before you can call it gone.

O bottom hunters, my fellow degenerates of hope,
we who say "this is the bottom" the way our aunties say
"this is the last bite" and mean it four more times.
We track the 200-day moving average like a horoscope,
we read sentiment ratios like tea leaves,
we whisper bullish things to charts
that have never once whispered back.

Some genius on Crypto Twitter calls this "accumulation,"
which is a beautiful word for buying something
while it actively hurts you, the way my grandmother
calls saving every twist-tie "thrifty"
and not the quiet panic of someone
who lived through worse than this.

O fear and greed, twin gods of my portfolio,
today you read twenty-three, practically begging
to be bought, and I believe you,
the way I believe every fortune cookie
that tells me good things are coming.
Maybe they are. The chart doesn't know yet either.

So here's to us, the ones still buying dips
below where we said we'd never buy again,
still whispering this is the bottom into the void
like it's a prayer instead of a guess,
still holding, not because we're brave,
but because somewhere between belief and grief
nobody taught us how to let go gracefully.