The way she moves.
Her body recites every show she’s ever seen. Her sexuality preprogrammed before 13.
Like directions on shampoo. Watch, memorize, and repeat. That’s what she’ll do.
Her hips swivel and swing and so do your eyes, locked and loaded on her thighs.
The pendulum drops when her fingers reach her hair, sliding up, jzeushing, flipping, yet going nowhere.
Your mind darts, left to right.
The taste, the touch, you want to steal.
Then you realize, it’s not real.
You’ve been programmed by your screen.
The life that you want isn’t your dream.
Written by Jamal A. Bilal
Illustrated by Brydon Everett