Psychedelic oroborus
I don’t want to get a heart or thumb’s up when I share my feeings anymore.
I don’t want to see that dispassionate heart coming back to me.
It says you didn’t care enough to use letters.
It’s not enough.
We are choking our dreams with emojis, suffocating our emotions with memes.
We are so boring.
So empty.
So full of cavernous platitudes with heart, eggplant and flame emojis.
I want to open a can of soda with a pull tab and cut my finger because it’s so sharp.
I want to put my tongue on that cold lever that runs up the spine of an old metal ice tray and then crack its icey spine.
I want to pick up a stinky old black telephone handset from 1973 and wrap myself in its knotted, waxy and twisted black coil cord and try to make a phone call.
Round and round we go with the likes and the memes and the emojis over and over and over again until we realize we are just a corporal sleeve for water and guts and minerals and electricity just sitting there hitting a button until we feel seen.
