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not as bad as when 
she drunk-posted Sand 
and Water by Beth 
Nielsen Chapman in honor 
of her uncle's passing 
forgetting it had a line 
in it about their child together 
which made it seem 
incestual and ridiculous, as if 
posting your grief in hopes 
of getting relief from it in the way 
of an artificially-induced rush 
of dopamine is a curated 
yet plausibly deniable 
high that every single one 
of the people reading in this time 
or any other has done again 
and again and again and don't 
even try to hide from it like 
you haven't been the guiltiest 
of all even if you don't do social 
media and eschew all the blogs 
and always jump to recipe 
every time you surf the darkest 
corners of the epicurean web 

we see you too even through 
the incognito browser you initiated 
before you swapped the names 
and negotiated the terms of the PTA 
sponsored dance at the end of the middle 
school years and—you, ding dong 
who raised a bud light in honor 
of your buddy who blew three 
fingers off his left hand in a fourth 
of july celebration of rights— 

we see you too peacocking 
and girl mocking your way 
into the male gaze, no shame, 
baby—we all gotta get it
somewhere, baby 

just make sure you snare consent 
before the big bang, baby—

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