an instagram fitness model

poses and tells you how

to live your life. you

begrudgingly agree to

"target your glutes"

but spend the evening

scrolling through social

media instead. your life

is the culmination of

decades of research on

how quickly and effectively

someone can affect your

dopamine levels. you hit

like on everything.

an instagram fitness model

poses and you comment

"nice tits" and a peach

emoji. it is removed

fairly quickly but to you

the damage is done.

you spend the evening

jerking off to pornhub

videos. you tell everyone

on 4chan that you love

the weird hentai shit

but really you watch

one video on an endless loop—

an older nude woman sitting

on the edge of the bed,

staring into the camera

and telling you how much

she loves you and that

she can't wait for you

to get home.

you come to that.

an instagram fitness model

poses and you double tap.

she is your daughter and

you haven't spoken with her

for years, because you were

a shitty father. you're

wearing a dirty white t-shirt

and dark blue boxer shorts

and smokey and the bandit

is playing on the tv in

your dimly lit apartment

devoid of bookcases.

you're on your third whiskey.

cheap. plastic bottle.

you hope she sees that you

liked her post. you never

read the caption.

an instagram fitness model

poses and you stop eating

for a week. popcorn and water.

she has a million and a half

followers and you, twelve.

she asks for discipline

and motivates you to eat

a third of your meal at

dinner. you look like a

skeleton draped in skin.

you comment on all of her

posts and tweet screenshots

of when she likes them.

when she doesn't like them,

you brood in your bedroom.

your parents sign you up

to see a psychologist

and you don't have the

energy to fight it.

an instagram fitness model

poses and you fuck her in

a posh hotel in dubai, where

she lives not unlike a well-kept

concubine for several months.

you give her everything she

asks for and send her on trips

across the world, which she

posts on her account.

she asks to live in your palace

but you decline; that is where

your wife lives, and your

collection of tigers. at night

you stare out the window

at the sand and the impossible

buildings, wondering what

the fuck any of it means.

an instagram fitness model

poses. only .01 percent

of the world's population

sees it. the rest don't

even know she exists.

an instagram fitness model

poses and then unflexes her

abs, her stomach dropping

back to a normal shape.

the photographer calls her

baby and that she looks great

and she smiles and asks to

look at the photos before

she picks which one to post.

she has a catalogue in her

mind of each imperfection,

like a glass case of pinned

bugs; wrinkles on forehead,

pinned; too much cellulite

on her thighs, pinned;

the monarch butterfly of

her veiny hands. pinned.

she writes posts about how

she doesn't care about

cellulite but she cares,

and she cries in the

bathroom sometimes.