The phone is the first thing to grab. It is not even a thought, it is an instinct. My entire existence squeezed down to a shining little rectangle. I want to treasure it and throw it against the wall, watch the screen crack.
But I would never do that. That box is a lifeline, its flashing face a part of my own.
But that’s why I hate it so much–this stupid little cracked box nailed to my thigh–because it is me.
A piece of me is plastered on every social media site I own. Inside the box there are little boxes and if you look really closely you’ll see me waving. My back pocket holds me.
I’ve recently realized that I can make people think a certain way about me depending upon the things that I post online.
Recently, I’ve filled my Instagram with books and artsy photos with poems and selfies with confessional blurbs,
I post what I want them to think. Every week I click “Going” to the comedy and poetry open mics, I approve all the photos so there I am, on their newsfeed, Lindsey G- that one girl they knew from that one time,
oh, and I’ll run into them, take a minute with their name and say oh yea! and we ask each other the questions you ask and answer politely and when we’ve ran out of things to say (which is very quickly) they go, oh, hey! how’s your comedy going? I’ve been seeing that on Facebook.
Yes, see it on Facebook.
Believe it to be true, it is true. I am fueling my writer identity out there. I would tell them that I have a blog but this isn’t exactly the type of blog that you want people reading.
This is the diary that you hide from your mother.
My identity is in my pocket. When someone wants to talk to me it notifies me. It then notifies the other person that I agree to interact.
Here imagine two individuals, one in jail and one isn’t. A guard goes back and forth to deliver messages.
I am not the person I say I am.
I do not mind people thinking what they may, let them think what they want.
It is people closest to me–my family, my friends,
separated by a stupid little cracked box
My mother sees my avatar
and not me
When she texts me I don’t know what to say. I woke up this morning to one from her asking if she even existed to me. She tagged me in a video, some sappy, nostalgic daddy/daughter thing, and was upset that I didn’t “acknowledge” it. that I didn’t like it, or type words that I don’t mean.
I am depressed that my family doesn’t know how to reach out to me, that they do so through Facebook and ill-typed messages,
that I’ve distanced myself, they feel like I am far off, but really I’m not,
and I don’t know if I’m supposed to point things out to them, or if I’m just supposed to keep quiet,
obvious things like
“I don’t like it when you say stuff like that…”
I don’t know how to respond,
how I’m supposed to respond
to them, when a new text message comes up, or a new Facebook notification,
and some mornings I wake up to notifications screaming at me from everywhere,
turn it off
go back to sleep
i don’t want to deal
I try to ignore the box but it won’t shut up! My mind is curious to see what’s going on “out there” so I log on, or,
waiting on messages, here I am the classic crazy woman countinously checking her mailbox, and her neighbors whisper, the mailman hasn’t come yet,
some bright text brandishing,
words I pump too much meaning into excitedly,
boys who mean nothing
throw it at the wall,
or place it beside your pillow and stare at it.