TikTok live as a simulated wasteland
of longing: the fake background breaking
to spirals of woozy, purplish blue. I turn
over in my sleep, pixels of exposed breast
crashing into frame as the rasp in your voice
winds to a scratchy minor C, asking: “Can I live
rent free in your mind?” The audio distortion
is dreamified as arms suffused with screenbright
warmth, their tactile static shaking me
into the oblivion of my phone where light
pulls an astralghost out of me. Your comments
read: “Is that your bed? Are you all alone
in that room? Can I see you soon, see more
of you?” You’re my top viewer, my only viewer,
really, and you want me to be perfect for you,
even as I short-circuit out of vision. You speak
again: “I do now, if I don’t already.” My body
stirruped and baresplayed in a way you
could digitally erase the crinkly purple top sheet
and anything else on me, anything you want.
I need money so bad, I’ll join live anytime you
want if I don’t have to see it.