Facebook Is Enough to Make You Want to Kill Yourself, Sometimes
Pictures and declarations of happiness,
the perpetual measuring stick
by which I rise and shine
and stare
at the perfect people
through my cyber window
as I writhe.
Thick coffee sloshes
around my stomach:
out groans the dissatisfied commentary.
There, there, stomach.
I sit with legs crossed,
head propped on hand.
I am “The Thinker” forced to my crisis point.
I am a suspended marionette
midway through a sign of the cross —
a roman catholic reflex, I guess.
Like breathing,
like the recoiling of the tibia
from a cold prod of the patella,
like the sliver of light
that lassoes the pupil
tightly and to a point.
I am the fallen one,
a perverse heathen
seeking relief in the ritual.
I thought it might
bring some peace.
I thought it might
summon a superhero.
I thought the touch
of the four magical points
would topple the angsty monument built atop my chest
that presses out my breath.
But, alas, still I sit,
pinned
by schadenfreude and inadequacy.
There is only the whir of a caffeinated brain
(or a fluorescent light)
and an angry belly
as I click,
“Like.”
