Mostly Wet

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.