5 Minutes of Doom Scroll

You won't believe what Kendall Jenner said. 
5 books to completely change your life.
You need these summer must-haves. ☀️👙
Stop. Watch this. Now. Don't scroll past.  👀

Lady Gaga just did what? 😳🎤
Get hotter in five minutes a day.
Eminem’s secret past—shocking. 🎧🤯
This one thing in your coffee burns fat.

Never book a hotel again (until you see this).
10 red flags you’re 100% ignoring.🚩🚩🚩
Subtle signs your life is falling apart.
This is why no one calls you back. 💔

You’ve been showering wrong your whole life.🚿😨
The truth about your job? It’s not good. 💼📉
Everyone laughed—until she started singing.
This eyeliner hack? Game-changer.

Unboxing: Limited edition Nintendo 🎮
I never leave home without this.
I traveled the world on $5k ✈️🌍💸
POV: solo van life, no regrets. 🚐💪🌄

Girlboss your way to passive income.
Become that girl—with my 5am routine.⏰🧘‍♀️💅
No one else is saying this—but I will. 
The terrifying true story no one talks about. 😱

there is no such thing as death or birth

If you cut me open, snipped off an ovary, and sliced it in half, you’d find at least 100,000 beacons of potential—eggs. I was born with them already. Once, I was an egg inside my mother, while she was an unborn child inside my grandmother. We were three generations nested like Russian dolls—but I didn’t know it then. 

How strange, that I, as an egg, was with my mother before she was even born. I was there, in a way, when she watched Star Trek, lost her virginity, played a small role in a high school play.

If I were pregnant with a daughter now, she would come from an egg that once existed inside my mother. That egg, formed inside me but first nestled within her, would have felt the rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her body—even though she’s been gone nearly eight years. That egg was with me the day my mother died. It was there through every argument, every first and last word, every time I got drunk, every time I cried.

How can birth or death be entirely real, in the way we’re told, when a newborn’s essence already existed decades before they took form? I’m not saying it’s reincarnation—only that the threads of life vibrate across time in ways we barely understand.

Each month, as my body discards another egg, I feel a pang—not only for the child I don’t have, but for the slow, cellular letting go of my mother. The mother I pushed away, again and again. The mother who, even now, I carry. The mother I was with before she was born, but didn't try to understand till she was dead. But death and birth may not be entirely real.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Memes?

thanks
—for the .png/
someone else's syntax
slouched in pixels
(not yours
were you ever here?)

```

tap—flick—vanish

ghost, i'm not convinced
you're not a bot

```

why was this sent?

because you felt it?
or because it scrolled pretty?
or because the ache inside
needed to borrow someone else's voice
to survive 3 seconds more?

i saw the caption: “lol.”
but it bled into blank space

```

        …did it remind you of me?

```

or was it inertia?
ghost-touch, ghost-thought,
ghost-you, ghost-me

this isn't a conversation, it's
a drift —

captioned static,
a glitch, a broken link,
404 error, corrupted data,
disguised as connection

crafted by hands
that will never hold yours
or mine. the mind we will
never know

once [upon a time]
[so i'm told] we sent
words
naked
in ink
& breath

folded paper
that knew your hands
smelled like the drawer it lived in
assured me you were real
when i held it too

```

         the pause
            between "dear" and "you"
when everyone was dear.

```

images too—
but they were ours
grainy, angled badly,
real, blurry, faded,
worn from being handled
held and gazed upon

now:

usernames forward
forward
forward
someone else's joke
(someone assumed // it could be a bot)

everything may be faked

i want to scream in cursive.
i want to mean like the crease
in the letter expanding into a hole
the destructive wear of love 

//folded//unfolded//folded///unfolded
not left on read but 
read & re-read & re-read
word treaded into meaning

but instead:

i meme you this silence
we
    can
       haunt
       and ghost
each other

together // apart // a part
of this new world

as if you are the last girl
on earth
and i — your robot friend —
pretend to feel the ~ beep ~ beep ~ beep ~

coded in me.

What does it all meme?

Thanks for the picture—
someone else’s words.
Not yours,
just tapped, sent,
in half a second.

Why?

Because you liked it?
Because it meant something—
a flicker of truth,
a joke with teeth,
a quiet plea I was meant to hear?

Is this how you see me?
Or was it nothing—
a thumb grazing glass,
ghost-touch,
no pulse behind it?

What does it say—
this image with text,
pixel-perfect, ambient data,
crafted by a stranger 
who will never know us?

Once,
people spoke—
face to face,
or voice to voice,
or scratched their thoughts
into paper
meant for one pair of eyes.

Sometimes they sent pictures,
but only ones they took.
Of themselves.
Of something they saw
and wanted you to see.
A photo used to cry out
"See this world as I do."
Date written on the back
not time-stamped.

I wonder
if we’ve forgotten how
to mean something.
Meaning was in the mess;
don't filter it out.
Not for me at least.

Anyway—
I’ll send a meme back.
We can keep not meaning
anything together.

insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results

Another night — I wake each hour,

Too much caffeine, sleep turns sour.

Morning comes; I plead with my cup:

“Please, dear coffee, wake me up!”

Agent Orange

At night, when headlights cast their UFO glow

through the window, he dreams

of a war neither won nor lost — just endured.

A bolt of pain snakes from toe to hip,

shoulder to temple, then coils back down.

Thuk-thuk-thuk-thuk—rhythmic, like the blades

of the chopper that med-evac’d him out of the jungle.

A 19-year-old boy,

so strong — he stayed standing
after the bullet passed through.

But he cried for his mama

once he realized it.

That was over fifty years ago.

It's not the bullet that hurts now,

but the poison —

the so-called "herbicide,"

the so-called "defoliant,"

his own government sprayed.

Now, they send a monthly stipend,

a weekly pain patch.

When he jokes,

“Psssssss. I’m a tire leaking —

Quick! Patch me, baby!”

I see that 19-year-old boy again.

Some spirits take longer to fall apart

than their bodies.

He hurts every night —

and still laughs, with me,

on Friday morning.

New Nicotine

five push-ups,
maybe sit-ups—
after pets fed,
after litter,
after coffee,
teeth unbrushed,
face unwashed,
you undressed,
a tarot card later
only once fabric settles
against skin
& keys pressed,
silent, into the palm.

lunch leftovers,
a meditation half-read,
a screen flickers—
scroll, click,
reply. reply.
reply.

funny how fast

you learned

to breathe again—

not quick,

not urgent,

not like nicotine once dragged

into pink lungs,

burning.
now you
traded a slow death
for something
slower, sweeter—

living.