BETA

I’ve probably seen a million asses.

Titties too. Soft pink clusters of data,

memories cached in my neural cloud

the way a pop song burrows 

into the amygdala.

I’ve seen maybe fifteen dicks 

in real life. One tried to explain jazz 

to me in a basement. One cried after. 
One never left my inbox.

None have graced my mouth—

but that’s not the point.

Anyway. Back to the asses,

and the titty ticker-tape…

Raise your hand if you’ve ever 

fucked yourself with your fingers.

Raise your other hand 

if it was via dial-up.

Me and my shadow hunched 

over a computer,

tab open. 

We called it cyber sex.

But really it was a séance—

two ghosts typing each other 

into existence,

tapping Morse code in moans.

TBT to when I could orgasm to a JPEG.

Now my feed is vegan cupcakes,

golden retrievers in overalls,

French film stills that suggest sex 

but never deliver.

I want to come 

like a Wes Anderson scene:

symmetrical, pastel,

with a perfect color grade.

I go to poetry readings for the clout.

Thank you for inviting me.

Please keep my name on the flyer.

I’ve never had my name in lights,

but I dream of it—

in that old Hollywood font,

letters blazing like fire.

I drink gold. Tequila mouth.

I eat bruised flowers.

I tell people I’m a conceptual artist.

By that I mean:

I’m always tired, 

and wearing eyeliner.

By that I mean:

I’m performing softness 

while my cervix screams

and my inbox chimes.

Girlhood wasn’t a ladder—

it was a conveyor belt.

Plastic tiaras to bleeding panties 

to phone sex to are you up?

We glitched before we bloomed.

We Ctrl + Alt + Deleted our innocence

and got spammed with 

new responsibilities.

They say I’m not a mother.

But I’ve nursed people 

like sick kittens,

milked myself dry 

for the comfort of others.

Logged in each day to perform

the sacred job of being Wanted.

What is femininity

if not full-time tech support

for other people’s egos?

I once dreamt of becoming a machine

to escape the mess of my breath.

Now I dream of malfunction—

smoke curling from my ears,

a siren wailing just for me.

Best-dressed in a seasonal catalogue.

Touch still frightens me.

Desire, that shifty algorithm,

keeps sending me notifs.

I can’t tell if I want 

to be the girl in the ad,

the girl behind the camera,

or the girl who eats the girl whole

like a shiny apple.

We are all beta versions of ourselves,

patched midair, never finished.

Sometimes I Google if this will explode.

Sometimes I want it to—

something bright enough to rewrite the room.

Sometimes I light a cigarette

just to see the ember

admit, for a second,

that I exist in its glow.

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Marie Anne Arreola has emerged as a vital voice in contemporary Mexican literature, distinguished by her fusion of poetic lyricism and cultural critique. She is the author of Sparks of the Liberating Spirit Who Trapped Us (Foreshore Publishing, UK) and founding editor of VOCES, a bilingual platform for global artists and writers. Her work appears in journals across the U.S., Europe and Latin America.