Everybody sees the inside of the sausage under the surveillance state

I trade in burner emails to try and fleece the advertisers
the lint trap comes off the dryer and microplastics fly unhinged
they told me the glitter was biodegradable
anything is ephemeral if you wait long enough
I’m actually pretty busy worrying if I’m hot, anyways
at least some things are enduring
but each year the fucks slough off like skin flakes
It’s hard to see the strata, tell what’s accumulated over time
microplastics chafing from my leggings against sweat
the skin is a sponge and I’m soaking up everything
individualist propaganda
I wish I could figure out the rules of my internal system like ‘never smoke weed in
November’
gorge on the taste of myself
during my daily sedation hours, which are always
if you’re lucky you’ll say something everyone else has already said and finally understand it
seems to me most of social interaction is remembering not to say the right things
each clinging to our talismans of trying the hardest
I’m retraining my attention span by watching tiktoks all the way to the end

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Eliana Gray is a writer living in Ōtepoti. You can find their work in print and around the internet in places such as The Spinoff, Landfall, Overland, and Cordite Poetry Review.