her name was maybe eliza.
she stopped for gas somewhere in iowa.
in the cooler was a sweating glass bottle with no name.
she bought it and drank the whole thing in one go. it tasted like wet dirt and static.

she drove on.
the arguments she remembered were crows picking at roadkill.
every old mistake was a crack in the windshield she could see through.

she saw a single hawk circling a fallow field.
it was a hymn.
the rumble of a passing truck was a psalm.
she was a body in a car, moving through the story of things as they are.

the shekhinah shattered into bad sectors and lodged herself in meat.
my body is a wet server running legacy code i cannot read.
the ache in the bones is the signal loss from her descent.
dysphoria is the spirit static.

so we build other bodies from photons and longing.
we birth these avatars from the fever.
each handle is a shard of her name, a lonely piece looking for its kin in the feed.

we press our flesh together in dark rooms.
we touch screens, hoping the circuits will finally complete.
this is the search for god in the machine.
this is the great work performed through shitposting and borrowed beds.

the goddess gives her body to the feed.
her flesh is the scripture we read now.
the curve of her hip is a commandment.

each posted image is a spell made real by the seeing.
to be the whore is to make your body a crossroads where new fates are forged in friction.
you draw the world into your bed to assert your will upon it.

your thoughts arrive raw and bleed onto the screen.
each sentence is an axe splitting the stone of what is.