Wednesday, 21 October 2015

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.