This is a three part poem that I’ve been working on, centering on the impact that technology has had on our relationships (and on ourselves). In the process of using technology to expand and augment our social lives, we’ve become more isolated. I feel that the moments depicted in this poem are pretty relatable, so I hope you enjoy!
Part 1: Text Message
I delete the extra period and change “you” to “u”
– in an effort to sound more personable.
It still sounds blunt, boring.
I scowl – unsure of how to come across as
exciting, friendly… likable.
Maybe an exclamation point or a smiling emoji
would accomplish the job?
/
No… she’ll think it’s too weird.
What does weird even mean, though?
These thoughts rattle around in my brain,
leading my finger to hover over the send button,
so close… yet so far from pressing it.
/
I sigh. Indecisively,
I add some hearts to make the message
appear more aesthetic,
throw in some random smiley faces
and then… I hit the send button
before I doubt myself for the nth time.
/
She’ll only know how you type – it’s not a big deal.
I remind myself.
All I need is the presence of someone else;
for someone else to listen, to know that I’m there.
It feels enough… but also not enough.
/
I can have dual conversations,
catering my language, and my style…
to the recipient.
So that the conversation keeps on moving.
/
No need to worry about my voice sounding
too high pitched,
or trespassing into someone else’s privacy.
No need to dissipate the awkwardness,
or long silences
that plague a phone call.
/
With a text message, I can curate exactly who
I want to be,
while hiding behind the white, upward pointing arrow enclosed
in a blue circle.
And at the same time, I’m hiding who I truly… am.
Part 2: Post
My smile is too wide,
I decide.
It makes my face appear too large,
highlighting the awkward dimple on
my right cheek.
/
Maybe I should do a retake.
/
After dozens of re-clicking,
and re-positioning,
turning my head right
and then left,
I settle on… something.
/
But I’ll fix it, I remind myself.
/
My skin is blemished;
so I use a brush,
and even out the shades of color
so that it is one smooth, uniform brown.
It looks… perfect.
/
I erase the messy, random
strands of hair that cover parts of my forehead,
so that I appear more well-kept, more presentable.
/
With the swipe of a digital pen,
I redefine my contours,
darkening the edges of my face.
I make my cheekbones a little higher,
a little more prominent,
as if it would substitute for the confidence
I deeply crave,
but lack deep inside.
/
Lastly, I add a filter, making my face brighter, sharper,
sealing the work I’ve done.
The person staring back at me is the person
I want to be.
It’s the person who makes me feel valued.
It’s the person who my friends on Instagram
like, repost, and share.
And for that reason, I despise this unauthentic
version of… me
the most.
/
No one truly knows me.
No one truly appreciates me –
not even myself.
The likes, shares, and reposts
will never be enough.
But, for now, this is how it is.
Part 3: IT
IT settles over me without warning;
IT doesn’t care about how bright of a day I’m having.
Almost like a storm – IT arrives, obscuring the sun,
dumping rain upon me, and flooding my mind
with fear.
Fear that I’m not good enough;
fear that I haven’t done enough;
fear that I can never be… happy.
I don’t know when IT will leave – only that IT will,
and that IT will come back.
/
IT already knows my vulnerabilities;
IT is a conglomeration of
my worst thoughts,
feelings that I’ve tried to suppress.
But IT also needs power to give control to those
thoughts that rumble in the back of my mind,
waiting for their time to rise.
Maybe I supply that power,
when I look at people around me –
people I don’t know – and wish to be more
intelligent, more accomplished.
Perhaps this detrimental thinking fuels IT,
so that my inner convictions seek shelter
somewhere else deep inside,
and the lights go out – the worst part
of the storm.
/
While my thoughts maybe fragmented,
tossed around and scattered,
IT, with all its turmoil, has dug up
a buried treasure upon its departure.
/
Gradually, the lights flicker back on,
and new ideas sprout
from the mess.
I become more aware of who I am,
and as the sun casts new rays of hope,
I become stronger… and ready for the next storm.
/
Maybe, IT intrudes on the lives of many people,
a natural, yet also a self-created, self-destructive visitor.
Maybe, IT doesn’t have to be kept secret;
IT can be… acknowledged.
Maybe, I’ll finally be confident, and secure,
once I stop hiding from the storm,
and rinse off the shame.
Maybe, once I feel secure,
my friendships, relationships, and connections
will also be… secure.
/
So, just… forget IT.
Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below! Click here if you would like to check out more of my writing.
