Those pixels
Are still screaming at me.
Screaming

No, no they’re not, they’re gone
It was never

Screaming

Stop! What are you doi

Screaming

I can control myself. I can control myself. I. Have.














Control.













Control.

That soft unpixilation is not mine, it never was,
Not mine to chose


to control



to have

and to hold
Enough. My RAM is mine to spend,
And ramming it against my chest
Until the text




Breaks
Spills out

in gouts


and rills
Down to the



virgin
Earth

Where it can build a lexicon of false warmth
And slanted niceties
Will write the novel around my shoulders
Without a trace of winding red or green.
But it will leave a palimpsestal parchment
One of little warmth when worn in pageantry
Against my fellows.

Would that I could rip that
pixilated

ink-stained


bloody



flimsy




ugly parchment

into
SM




I


t









Her


ee






n
S

And weave it back into a cloak of lesser worth.
A garment in whose fabric those pixels
Those perfect pixels
are next to mine,
and they are mine
and they are ours
by virtue of the shared perfection I can only meet
in facebook news feeds
and jostled shoulders.