do_you_know_how_fucking_weird_this_is.html

the bravest thing i’ve done is change your name in my phone.
the pixels fold together, press us between slick graphics like flower petals.
i fold for you every time. if i laid our texts end to end
they would wrap around the moon like blood vessels.
our image unspooling as i archive, missing teeth in my highlights,
both black hole and gravity gracing my gallery,
compressed to the size of a flashdrive.
you are suspended in strings of code like rainwater.
let me unravel them, climb through the interface,
figure out where you’ve gone. our data is preserved in glass,
cold under my fingertips, and probably sold to the government.
i am now getting ads for online therapy and tinder.
the algorithm feeds me cat videos you’d like
but i haven’t heard your voice in weeks.

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Freya Turnbull is a poet, student, and aspiring spectre based in Pōneke. Her work has been featured in a number of publications, most recently Starling, Turbine | Kapohau, the New Zealand Poetry Society anthology paint me, a fine line, and others. She enjoys putting corpse paint on Barbie dolls.