an instagram fitness model
poses and tells you how
to live your life. you
begrudgingly agree to
"target your glutes"
but spend the evening
scrolling through social
media instead. your life
is the culmination of
decades of research on
how quickly and effectively
someone can affect your
dopamine levels. you hit
like on everything.
an instagram fitness model
poses and you comment
"nice tits" and a peach
emoji. it is removed
fairly quickly but to you
the damage is done.
you spend the evening
jerking off to pornhub
videos. you tell everyone
on 4chan that you love
the weird hentai shit
but really you watch
one video on an endless loop—
an older nude woman sitting
on the edge of the bed,
staring into the camera
and telling you how much
she loves you and that
she can't wait for you
to get home.
you come to that.
an instagram fitness model
poses and you double tap.
she is your daughter and
you haven't spoken with her
for years, because you were
a shitty father. you're
wearing a dirty white t-shirt
and dark blue boxer shorts
and smokey and the bandit
is playing on the tv in
your dimly lit apartment
devoid of bookcases.
you're on your third whiskey.
cheap. plastic bottle.
you hope she sees that you
liked her post. you never
read the caption.
an instagram fitness model
poses and you stop eating
for a week. popcorn and water.
she has a million and a half
followers and you, twelve.
she asks for discipline
and motivates you to eat
a third of your meal at
dinner. you look like a
skeleton draped in skin.
you comment on all of her
posts and tweet screenshots
of when she likes them.
when she doesn't like them,
you brood in your bedroom.
your parents sign you up
to see a psychologist
and you don't have the
energy to fight it.
an instagram fitness model
poses and you fuck her in
a posh hotel in dubai, where
she lives not unlike a well-kept
concubine for several months.
you give her everything she
asks for and send her on trips
across the world, which she
posts on her account.
she asks to live in your palace
but you decline; that is where
your wife lives, and your
collection of tigers. at night
you stare out the window
at the sand and the impossible
buildings, wondering what
the fuck any of it means.
an instagram fitness model
poses. only .01 percent
of the world's population
sees it. the rest don't
even know she exists.
an instagram fitness model
poses and then unflexes her
abs, her stomach dropping
back to a normal shape.
the photographer calls her
baby and that she looks great
and she smiles and asks to
look at the photos before
she picks which one to post.
she has a catalogue in her
mind of each imperfection,
like a glass case of pinned
bugs; wrinkles on forehead,
pinned; too much cellulite
on her thighs, pinned;
the monarch butterfly of
her veiny hands. pinned.
she writes posts about how
she doesn't care about
cellulite but she cares,
and she cries in the
bathroom sometimes.
jcb