She influenced me
a poem
Bitter, she licks the rind of a lemon
while smiling, she’s addicted
to change, they whisper, devouring
her videos, promising this one’s last
I’ll get up soon and start productive.
Take your time, she says, but she’s
already fixed her minds, so it must be
easy to look like a vampire, hanger
for products, living on a plate of likes.
They picture her without clothes
without her skin, peeling back muscle
to prod at her core, carve secrets
of what makes her so molded, special
while the world circles, without them.
After, they scrub their bodies raw with
the bodywash set she recommended
call it inside thoughts, lies, forgotten
with time, till next Thursday, when she
summons their bargains whole again.
Walking up and down her street, they
wait for her to pose by the fire escape
take photos of her packages
observe comings and goings, matching
with beats of their hearts, soothing
in its dependability, we host blue veins.
It’s all her fault, they write in basic black,
leave little notes by the door, and march
toward hers, it’s not my fault, never was,
the internet’s broken, she influenced me.
Author’s Notes:
I’ve been experimenting with horror poetry (in my notebook) and thought it would be fascinating to borrow elements from it for my regular material. This one explores influencer culture’s most important element: the audience.
If I shit-talk social media, everyone will raise both their hands in agreement. But, then, who is watching the reels? Who is hitting likes? Funding their lives?
Accountability is a tricky concept. So are parasocial relationships. Wanting to look perfect in places where one can control their image. Us looking for answers everywhere except inside ourselves. Them becoming the thing we adore and violently hate when the tide turns. I’m not saying we’re all equally responsible, of course not, but it’s something to think about. Actively.
And if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I hope you can enjoy the poem as fiction.
This felt like horror sci-fi. All the scrubbing in a filthy, antiseptic future. Maybe I’ll be reincarnated as a costume designer. Doorways everywhere.
There is a line from an old song, "If there's no audience, then there ain't no show." I think we can safely assume equal responsibility. Appreciate your insights.