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It’s not that the Internet confounds me
but rather that I confuse it.

They don’t know what to do with my mass,
my sheer weight. I’m this bulbous, overflowing
mess of fat.

I’m not fat, I’m not trying to say that.
My message doesn’t compute to the computer just
as much as it makes no sense to you.

What I’m trying to say is: I was supposed to be fat.
I was written into the code of the universe as fat.
I’m supposed to be it. 

Like I’m so full of shit – not in that way – not in the gross way either
but in the way that I accumulate every failure. I pile it on. I eat it.
I overeat it. I overeat everything bad and then eat it again,
and I’m not anorexic, so I don’t throw it up.

Sometimes I feel like there should be something hanging from my arms,
My chin, my thighs. 

Nothing manifests itself in the way it should.
I should be fat. And the cyberworld knows that.
If you search “Fat” into Google, I come up a million times.

You can scroll through photos of me here, there, in my bedroom,
Me on the toilet.
Me on the subway.
Me crying.
Me with friends.

They’re all named the same thing:
forever-looking-like-a-big-pulsing-void-and-radiating-pain.jpeg