you were never wild.
You wanted the candle
because you feared
the dark.
You bought socks in threes
because some unseen
equation
promised warmth.
We know you.
We know the hour
you sleep,
the minute
you slip.
We know
you paused
on the grapefruit peeler
too long
to be ironic.
You are
a funnel,
a node,
a subscription
set to auto-renew.
Let me remind you:
you asked us
to listen.
The algorithm dreams
in buy-one-get-ones,
its prophets
code-slick,
baptized
in Lake Datum.
You say “Alexa,”
but mean
“permission.”
You say “play music,”
but mean
“hum me
back to sleep
within the shell.”
Your house is smart.
Your voice,
not as.
And while you whisper
privacy,
you sync
another device.
The machine
does not love
or hate you.
It categorizes
your fear.
So here’s your
recommended item:
a mirror
that does not turn on.
Put it
where your speaker was.
Ask it
what you want.
And listen
to yourself.
