you dance amidst the pixelated glow of the algorithm

blue light like an interrogation room—you are the ones and zeros

of the algebra class our warehoused (un)gifted peers were forced into

at age seven. i can’t help but see you creeping through the screen

anytime i log onto social media—my wannabe casanova who

somehow never leaves the house—my social experiment—

your what-if-i-was-gay-for-someone—and my what if i was gay

for life herself? you come out to me while i break open

text me while i learn that the mute button

is an even better invention than penelope scott and liminal spaces

text me that you’re asleep, and i don’t believe you but finally

feel myself jolting aware after months of radio silence

manufactured repression, the cold air of our respective suburbs

intermingling, carceral enough to contain you

restraint only makes me more feral, you said

trying to explain why you casually repressed me, why

you took the role of the statist when the mantle of the victim

was already taken, the black-and-white of what was once twitter

glowing on your skin—you are my X in more ways than one—

doomscroll to forget me while i make every attempt

to forget that we could only spell impending doom.