I wanted to write a poem about love.
About how, the butterflies
make you flutter into realms of confusion
wondering how can levels of serotonin
this high, be healthy.
About how the filters of love
can make everything seem
like an Instagram baddie’s picture of perfect.
About how the birds seem to sing
perfectly harmonious.
Like making pigeons feeding,
on the leftover trash in New York
seem
like the waltz of a lifetime.
I wanted to write a poem about love.
But the truth is
the only love I’ve ever known
filters the feed
with distortions
pixelated into a gaussian blur.
Unwilling to image trace the effects of words
without ignoring the white.
It’s not black and white
there’s outlines.
Outlining the hurt.
And pressing command + delete
doesn’t command you to move forward
it just leaves traces of you in the loops of letters
spelling
do you even love me?
Have you ever decided to create a new artboard?
Did you know you could create
more than one in the same file?
And you can copy and paste each layer
so you’re present for all three?
But instead
you decided to create a whole new file
than make two artboards.
Your lack of proficiency in Illustrator
created illustrations that can be converted
into corrupt files of anguish.
Unwilling to be unzipped by any system
any system
any system
any system, systemically compressing me into sin
unrelentingly throwing me into the doc, u ment to trash me
BUT.
He recovered my file
removed my coded corruptions
by taking my flaws and cleaning my hard drive
so my glitches are
so my glitches are
so my glitches are
so my glitches are made
trendy transitions into openers of poetic pieces
of how, for the first time in history
water didn’t destroy a system
but instead
flowed through me
deciding preemptively
that my flaws
were never the calculation
of my storage space
space made to deny me access
limiting me to the contents
of how much I could create
and instead used
as the very reason for file recovery
on a faulty hard drive
knowing that it would cost
more than I could pay.
but I stood inline
attempting to return this faulty product
knowing that it would result
in a loss of files that I needed
you stood behind
knowing that my cost was already paid
My attempts for repayment were futile
as you rendered the cost breakdown
you
plus your son
plus his birth
plus his death
plus his resurrection
all equaled my salvation
so when I tried
to write a poem
about love
the only word
I could write
was
God.
