In the future, there’s an oracle
where you can search
for where you belong. I ask this engine
and it replies:
do the deleted scenes choke you
up? In the future, I am young
and poor, so I become a webcam girl.
On camera I read passages
from Russian novels.
Curious netizens subscribe to my site
then cancel, ranting on forums
about my prudish act, how no one wants
to see a girl bend over
a thick book and wheeze.
After I go viral, I shut down my website.
Screenshots circulate cyberspace—
Anna, dressed as a purple panda,
Anna, taking a swig from a demitasse.
I collect all the passwords to my shrines.
I hack into them, grow a habit
of Photoshopping hyena spots onto
my own skin and uploading
my spoiled face onto Instagram.
My complexion has the mottle
of century eggs. My mustaches grow
feather tufts. I replace the paillettes
on my gowns with scales.
Recently, on the red carpet, I wear dresses
made of kelp, breathe
through fake gills and carry plastic
sacs full of saltwater.
Soon a crop of young girls will join me,
renouncing their dresses to wade
in the thrill of being animal.
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