I am Y

I am putting you on speakerphone because I’m

about to WhatsApp a friend who’s gonna conference me in

on a Skype call with a guy she met on LinkdIn

who had liked a WordPress blog of hers that linked him

to her Facebook wall where I had posted a picture

of the both of us and commented

“whores”.

 

My Facebook timeline is

just a guideline

to my growing insecurateens

sewing my insecurities

in cupped hands whose fingers intertwine with the unknown
desperately trying to keep soil from slipping through.

 

Being content ( insert inverted commas)

– is measured by my web content  –

in knowing I am connected getting

an email from someone I have never met because

somewhere out there

in that intangibility, the net

 

has more versions of me than I can check.

 

And the challenge

is to be them.

All the time,

Without fail.

 

 

Now,

for the purpose of this allegory let’s call me she

so that I can maintain that personal

distance

that has stretched me thinner than my iPhone screen.

 

She is a bullet in high heels running

headfirst into herself.

Pedantically, she

restocks the kitchen shelves with a collection of memory

shells arranged in alphabetical order to hide

the disorder she digests daily only for a brain draining dose of soul diarrhoea

She

shuts the bedroom door failing

acceptance?

 

 

 

I prescribe apathy.

retarded by her smart phone and a 20yr old nappy

She clings to the shit she should have learned to expel by now,

“but couldn’t care less”

Flabby arms and back fat and the sweat on her pants

from when she last sat, that

is how she thinks people see her.

The problem is

that she thinks people see her when in actual fact

she looked back first and couldn’t hold her gaze.

 

It’s been days since she last looked up from her shoes.

She can tell the left from the right by the scuff marks she’s added

through the vintage filter on Instagram.

Her waking life was lived

between hits of the snooze button and the plan

was to go out walking –

to see the bright lights and the busy streets and

let the psycho-geographical contours of her heart beat guide her.

 

Now

she doesn’t leave the house.

She shuts out the day so she can see her screen better  –

you know, cause she might misplace a letter

on one of her broadcast messages.

 

She carries around a R300 umbilical cord to keep her baby alive.

The one that sucks the life right out of her breast,

attached at the nipple

always ready

in case she receives a friend request.

 

She is Y

She can’t sleep or breathe without a full battery

She is Y

She monitors her heartbeat by the beep of a message tone and

She is Y

She only likes herself when someone else likes one of her photos.

 

Generation X and Generation Y…

As it stands, we’re only one letter away from the end of the alphabet

 

But I’m sure we’ve nearly perfected it…

Perfected this art of living breathing transparencies
You should see me, be me, click me, free me

Never Look Away.

 

Staring down one end of a cut off power cable she loses her sight in

eyelashes like a forest at the end of a road
and she forgets to look up.

 

 

 

 

She forgets to stretch out her hands and compare her
veins to those of the leaves falling at her feet
She forgot to ask you whether you prefer coffee or tea

 

But she’s already got your BBM pin

So

 

before your hand rests lightly on my shoulder and then falls through

Like a foot in the dark when you think there is one more step

Stop

look up

 

Blink

 

Breathe

and don’t forget to stay in touch

 

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