We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.

Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.

Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.

We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.

But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-

are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.

Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...

...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?

Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.

******* it!
I misunderstood everything
Your touch
The way you look at me
Your calls at night
Your e-mails
I'm a fool to think
That you love me
Then one day you're gone
You stopped caring about me
I can't feel your presence
Like crazy, every minute
I'm checking my accounts inboxes
God I love you so much
That even though it hurts
I can't stop loving you
I can't stop caring for you
I can't stop thinking about you
Where are you now?
Just one message and all my worries will be gone
I'm crazy, maybe you don’t want me because I'm crazy about you
And I hate my self for being a fool
And I also love my self for being crazy
If being crazy means loving you.

Notes passed in class:
Circle yes no or maybe.

Pages torn from diaries and journals:
Tonight I think I might love...

Haikus carved into the metal floor of the hole where your books are hidden during a quiz:
"School's a chore learning
2B a bore 4eva
while even ugly ducks soar"

Texts sent flickerfast explain why we're still fighting.
ME:     And then you said...
YOU:  I don't wanna read this ****.
ME:    OMFG this **** is what you said!

Emails from spambots clot inboxes with poems that are better than those from most flapping quills and tapping claws,
because they have no reason:

"Earstwhile Hardly asked an clocks raging spleeded
Pills pull grimy stovepots into a curdle stoop.
Click Here.  Click Here.  Click Here."

I can be a waste of time,
electrons dripping into my veins
through my eye socket
assaulting my ear canal
directly into my brains.

When my purpose is stretched
between too many ambitions
it is easily punctured
by the buzz of inboxes,
and mindless online exhibitions.

I gorge on useless tips and viral videos
positioning my open mouth
below the gaping search box
as I pull the lever again and again
and my willpower goes south.

Each stray thought, each nagging question
is an excuse to trade concentration
for an immediate rush,
a canonical ******
of electronic validation.

I pull as hard as I can,
interrupting the current
feeding these diversions.
The network inside my brain lights up,
completing my inner circuit.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 28, 2019)

My first job was data entry, with all those awful numbers.
The next ones were flush with time and words were incalculable,
floating out of copiers and stenographers. I hand-wrote them then

in-between walking memos to real, plastic inboxes.
Microsoft changed everything with their windows
in which I could type out my poems. After all,
writing poems looks awfully similar to working.
And instead of office supplies, I began to steal time.

I snuck words in through open windows,
met them in small storage rooms, had conferences
with them at lunch. I sat in ergonomic chairs
while they reclined on the yellow, lined paper.

Sometimes I had to cajole them.
Sometimes they were team players.
Sometimes they were only wanting to gossip.
Sometimes they came out of the mouths of people
standing unawares in front of my desk. Sometimes
they didn’t show up to work, but I couldn’t fire them.

They liked to be fussed over, rearranged.
They wanted to be knit and spaced.
All they wanted was my attention.
And they must have known I would never give them up
for all the money. Because at the end of the day,
when they took their leave, it always sounded good.

i am a woman made
of countless triggers never warned
(i don’t need a ******* trigger warning, I pull them every day)
of unnoticed scars
(i heal too fast and am too clever at hiding them)
and uncounted skipped meals
(because i’m too good at lying and too fat to have a eating disorder)

of empty pill bottles and whiskey bottles and ****** wrappers and inboxes
of unspoken dependence
and too much *****
(because i used to like to drink too much so that i could flirt with death
& if I survived I could feel thinner in the morning)

but all that is changing in the morning

but right now it feels good to feel drunk

and that’s okay

because I’d rather feel drunk and alone under flannel sheets

than ever
              you lot again

in a dimly lit computer shop*.  

Hacker?
*no. ****** of infidel inboxes.

Wow. Computer genius
lucid dreamer, green-horn.

Mystic?
poet.

A lover then?
no. just a hacker of heart,
a  forsaken grass.

YOU saw him in a Facebook group:
•U check his Profile picture.
•He Drives A Range Rover Sport 2016.
.He is handsome.
•He inboxes you.
•You reply, all excited.
•You'll want 2 hook up.
•You set a date.
•You dress up that Legging With No underwear.
•Smelling good.
•You put on a makeup - fresh breath and new weave.
•He takes you 4 lunch @ Serena Hotel.
•He Takes you for - Drinks At Java.
•You two have a good time.
•He rubs your hand,
•Makes you laugh,
•Gives you looks and smiles.
•You stupidly fall in love.
•It's like you've known him Forever.
•He takes you to his apartment.
•He makes you feel comfortable and lays u on his bed.
•Kiss you passionately.
•You love his aggression, strength, power and you give in.
•It feels good.
•You know it's wrong, but it feels good.
•You ask for protection, he says it's too late.
•You obey and don't disturb.
•He says he loves you and you don't hesitate to say you love him too. He hits it nice and slow
•After, he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
•He helps you drink it, ooohh man.
•You feel special.
•"He must be the one" you think to yourself.
•You get dressed.
•He takes you to the taxi park.
•He kisses you on the cheeks and says
•"I had a great time,"
•Gives You cash.
•U smile and say.
•"See you tomorrow babe."
• He stays silent.
•Your taxi drives away,
•In the taxi u can't stop smiling.
•You get home and inbox him that you got home safe.
•He is online, but doesn't reply.
•It's unlike him, so you inbox him again.
•He doesn't respond.
•Minutes later you can't find him on ur friend list.
•HE BLOCKED YOU.
•Days, weeks, months passes by.
•You start feeling sick, weak, loose weight, act strange with sores in your mouth.
•You go to the clinic.
•Get tested.
•Minutes later,
•Nurse walks in."I'm sorry. You're *** Positive and Pregnant!"
•".HOW ?"
•You don't understand.
•Reality hits you.
•You walk home.
•Scared.
•Confused.
•You go to the bus stop.
•You lay, hopeless, emotionless.
•You see death coming nearer.
•You look into the sky & mumble a prayer.
That's the end of you.

Hi guys I see I have lots of inboxes just give me a little bit to respond to you guys I’ve been super busy lately xo ps you guys are lovely

It’s good, but not what we’re looking for right now.
Oh, but it stings. And how!
The position’s closed, better luck next time
Your lips are bruised purple from that smile.

We loved it, but it doesn’t fit with our current line-up
You take a bitter sip of the salty tea-cup.
It’s good, dear, just not for me
You nod, you understand, ‘cause it ever is.

Your throat stings from not screaming loud enough,
Frustration the itch of a swallowed cough.
You’ve heard it a hundred times, and yet the hundred-and-first
Burns like every regret thrice reimbursed.

But while they wound, they aren’t nearly as bad,
As the radio silence of indifference ironclad.
Refreshed inboxes and double-checked call logs tell
The sordid tale of a dream drowning in the wishing well.

Vacancies disappear and resumes languish
Receptionists pout in parodied anguish.
It’s never you, it’s always them,
It’s never you’re-not-good-enough, it’s always not-the-right-fit.

It’s all the same, yet unique every time
Nobody’s got a minute, but asking’s not a crime.
It’s self-flagellation with a calling card
We don’t give a ****, best regards.

Your name’s not on this list, or the next one
And yet you walk, ‘cause you can’t outrun
The ghost of a dream, of a hope long gone
Of finding the happily-ever-after in life’s lexicon.

-----

A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough
propositioned to the Ladybug
one carton of American Spirits from Montreal.

the first time I saw a warning label scuttle.

"PERTE DE LA VUE"

you can always trust matches to light the neglected beetle,
clinging his chest.

we stumble, to entangle.

White birch wood weaving baskets from branches
caskets from canvas
red/black marble sloppy, from rose goggles.

I blot Rorschach ink from
my eyes, a blind linguist, lost
in messenger inboxes.

"Malakh"

"Maraszatal"

blind luck
killing Lady Bugs.

I have seen broken glass at ice breakers
And dream paralysis for living dreams
The broken glass attempting to get stuck together
but being thrown away as if it was meant to stay in pieces
I have seen fulfilled nightmares and crippled wings just like how they would show a glorified warrior
I have seen wet bathroom floors, red sometimes, just as beautiful as the crimson sky and
I have seen google searches on why bleach and pills didn’t work just the way I have seen someone committed to get their promotion
I have seen blue and purple faces just as beautiful as Chantilly laced flowers,
Embracing themselves like roses even after being plucked – despite the pleading attempt of their thorns
I  have seen their rosy colour fade away as they struggle to show their best shade of red before they leave – because who likes disappointments?

And who likes putting back together someone else’s glass pieces right from scratch and you and I both know that even if it stuck it wouldn’t be the same again –
So it just melts itself to start all over again

And who likes seeing rotten shades of red, blue and purple when it’s easier to choose to see the glossy teary eyed side –
So we pretend everything is okay as we enjoy the sunrise

Those held thorns don’t like being appreciated but if you pluck their flower you’re leaving nothing behind but the dead corpse of an almost
But who likes to deal with the anger side of depression anyway?
So we just walk away, leaving the thorns un-watered to grow corpses of hatred

And of all the terribly glorified things I’ve seen
I’ve seen gladiators out of battlefields
Struggling with no weapons, fighting with themselves
I have seen children with fake smiles
Unused umbrellas in bags
I have seen attachment grow it’s roots all over to be simply cut by a scissor of betrayal

Of all the cracked ceilings and tight ropes,
Bridge edges and stoutly stiffened up hope,
Of the useless sharpeners and tiger prints on thighs
Crowded beaches drowning inside and sharpened nails all ready to fight
I’ve sat on quiet dinner tables where the only chewing sound is of the collapsing mind

I’ve seen friend lists filled only with acquaintances
And inboxes questioning their state
I’ve seen wrists smothered with concealers two shades lighter
And bags of eyes carrying weight heavier than that of broken dreams and flightless wings shrunk and grown tighter
I have seen fire burn bright of all the alcohol annihilate
And anger that can shake mountains with it legs tied together to a stingy abrupt volcano of abuse

And I have seen never ending nights
When blades are finally of no use

But who wants to talk about it unless its poetry anyway?

there are 2 gigabytes on my phone of voicemails and 99% are from you and i wonder if our inboxes mirror each other or if you deleted the ones i used to send you
i thought i would have a lifetime of "goodnight and i love you"s
now all i am left with is a slow phone and the inability to call anyone

craigslist posting said
"ill eat your ***"
and i passed over

thirty years old

lonely as ****
society of social media
filled of disinterested persons of interest

not gay but looking

desperation fills each page
***** pics of distant rage
and empty inboxes declare

"**** me, i"m worth it"

woman are no better
more seductive, entirely more pleasant
yet from my perspective

each picture cries a natural hunger

for someone to hold the chains
for someone to pass the blame
for someone to entertain her games

and my ******* falls past Niagara.

because she dies inside
because she seems to have no hope
because we've been secluded to the dark corners

of the ******* internet

this is getting too toxic
in my hopes of getting the likes, the reactions, the followers i want from people
this isn’t healthy
for everyday checking my social media to check my inboxes just to see I received nothing from the person i wish would message me
this is not by the influence of our society
it is simply just me
with the idea that being famous
that by being loved by everyone
is the key
to get out of being lonely

no one reaches out
my line stays dry
i don't reach out either
because i've already tried
nothing comes of it
it all ends as fast it starts
i'm tired of people trying to change me
i'm tired of nursing a broken heart

so i don't reach out
and neither do they
empty inboxes
haunt me all day
the messages that come
are desperate or bored
i'm dying for interaction
but i know better than before

the one time i replied
he tried to use me
to try and manipulate me
is the best way to lose me
so i ghosted him
and left him on read
turned off my phone
and went to bed

I NEED CONVERSATION AND STIMULATION
I NEED MORE THAN DESPERATION
MY DREAMS ARE BEYOND X RATED
I'M MORE FUN WHEN I'M THINKING
GIVE ME WORDS WORTH READING
SAY SOMETHING WITH ACTUAL MEANING

i sift through the gibberish
in search of food for thought
i am not here to make you feel better
nor to get you off

i just wish someone would hear me
my throat is raw from screaming
WHY DO I FEEL SO ALONE
why is happiness so fleeting

but all they want
is for me to fill a role
either to take my virtue
or save my soul

why
why
why
why
why

i just want to talk to someone
and tell the truth for once

I still have that picture of you & I during a hike up some hill whose name I can't remember now taken by another one of our friends who came along with us for the trip. There were 5 of us. This was 3 years ago. That part I remember.

You're sitting beside me on a fallen tree and grinning ear-to-ear while I'm sitting on it coffee-shop-style with one leg up, pouting - because i was tired from the hike. I remember that bit too.

I'll never forget that trip.

I'll never forget our friendship.

I remember showing that picture to my ex when I was still dating him - this time, last year - and him telling me how good I looked in it. At that time, we had become nothing more than strangers with memories.

You were busy with who had now become your current fiancée

I was busy with who had now become my current ex.

In retrospect, I knew it wasn't me who looked good.

It was what you did for me that made me look good.

That ex later on left - inevitably - but the feeling of heartbreak when he left wasn't as bad as the feeling of heartbreak when you told me to **** out of your life because you didn't need me in it anymore. That I did for good.

He broke my heart.

You broke my spirit.

I also remember the way your name went further and further down in my inbox, decreasing with importance later on.

You probably don't even remember that our names used to be the highlight of each others' inboxes at one point in time

People wondered if we were together

Once again, it was what you did for me and what I did for you

I also have the polaroid of that photograph, in case you wondering

It hangs by a peg from the fairy lights by my bed - next to the other polaroids featuring me and my other friends

I took a look at that photograph yesterday evening

And I wrote this.

But you will probably never get to see it

The same way you never got to see...

...how much I loved you.

Hot water crisis

Suddenly no hot water
We didn’t have hot water in my childhood
We had to boil water on a kettle
Pour it into a bowl, add cold water and wash
The vital parts.
It was when it was a communal bath, I discovered
Hot water in a shower and clean towels.
I wonderful moment.
Talking about water, there is not so much of it now
The summer lake near the houses is a hole covered with
Thistles and the river are a stony track.
Where I live now the water from the faucet is not potable
We have to buy it at the local shop, and it adds to
The household expensive.
I drink about two litres per day, and it cost more than cheap wine.
I refuse to drink the nasty, the residue of an empty, wine sold inboxes.
A cold glass of water in the morning is aa
Nectar, no one should be denied.

Tasted,
   dipped fingers into chocolate.
Figures;
  Glutenous Pig.
"Sorry";
    there goes the notion of trust. . .
Endless "hey cutie" inboxes;
   I picture doing it back.

yet I stay ,
   sick for your love,
I stay. . .

In this endless song.

-Stay