The Algorithm is a Cold Mirror

I wish I could write the season that cancels you
invoke the onslaught of a single color recurring over
surfaces and souls, even of things that have no souls,
until the secrets that were named after you and
the points of the past where I conjured the parts of you
that fell into place when you materialized at my side
that music-drunken night become indecipherable,
like a dead language.

I have been locked out the of the vault of my own mind,
all I hear are weak paraphrases of my most outspoken demons,
watered down convictions, the passwords and keys I am missing
appearing as the vague shapes of the hurts I cannot bring
myself to touch a second time after the first contact.

I wish I could make the search bars stop predicting you,
I wish the stories I am privy to did not reflect my own
behavior. I wish the picture painted by my browsing history
were more than a laundry list of my weaknesses.

I wish I could wake up and fumigate the old narrative,
watch the festering critters of my unhealthy tendencies
scamper and jump off the edges of the screen as fast as
their six legs could carry them, without succumbing
to the lie that I would miss them, and resist the urge
to gather them back.

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