Was she a narcissist,
she wondered as she
pressed “Send” :
desperate perhaps?
A ‘pleaser’? Above her
head a photo of her
newly depilated vagina
was being
pestled into a paste
of ones and zeroes,
thrown bodily into the
sky,
bounced off some
space-soiled satellite,
sieved, the pixels
repurposed as her
pudenda on the laptop
screen of a
man she’d never met,
might
never meet, and while
she felt
ashamed, like the
world that image
circumnavigated, she found
herself
mostly wet.
