#stuckinthevoid
by Sheila Dong

Runestone, volume 2

#stuckinthevoid

you’re in the bathroom, gnawing off your thumbs for Facebook.
a button on my wrist shoots stars for Twitter and hearts for Tumblr

between scars from cutting and bracelets for causes I forgot.

on TV, a latte with a feather etched in its foam holds a press conference.
howling from the crowd. you feel malaise. we teleport: Times Square.

we kiss. our faces swell to 400-foot inflatables and parade through the streets.
a hailstorm of thumbs and stars and hearts pummel us: we survive the night.

a burger suctions a Japanese tourist between its patty and its tomato slices.

the weather’s been vaporized but we can still spot pictures in the Cloud:
I see your profile. the Cloud thunders its sum of all information

then drips 1s and 0s and more 0s down our dry throats.
we go to Times Square even though we are already there.

we shriek down the streets pushing over buildings, flimsy cardboard stands.
clawing out our eyebrows, undoing the fleek. we flee

underground: hashtag seeds germinating in black incubators.

a glowing pink cistern where they keep backup Kardashians.
Princess Diana’s atomized Mercedes, slathered in ketchup.

still no drinkable water. you are dying. as in, literally

dying. the horror is strong, but Instagram filters out the worst of it.
shock sets in. our followers are so jealous of our selfie game:

Mayfair tan, Perpetua party frock, blinding smiles, our bravest
 
faces. we’ve got so many to choose from.