2025

The year was 2025.
Every day felt like waking up in a
Dystopian novel someone was still editing for the plot.

Ten dollars for eggs.
Fifteen for a four-pack of probiotic soda–
If you wanted to pretend you were luxurious, or fixing your gut
Biome because, let’s be honest,
We’re all just coping with cheese.
Sue me.

We dress in microplastics we’ll
Eventually set on fire in mass dumps, further polluting our already fucked
Atmosphere.

We scroll TikTok for news updates–
On phones manufactured by our enemies – in between influencer
Breaks showing us ten of the best lip glosses $30 dollars can buy.

We calculate our distance from nuclear targets like it's a life hack.
If it hits there we’re safe. If it hits there we shelter in an
Interior room for 72 hours.
We breathe through our teeth.
We wear N95s to block radiation.
We eat only sealed foods.
Maybe we survive.
Maybe we don’t.
And then what?

To live?

To live in a world where we knew the implications.
Knew the destruction.
Knew the ruin.
And did it anyway?

We did it.
Those men– the ones in suits–
Are just mortals.
And I know, when I look at my neighbor…
He might have pressed the button too.

This is Earth?

The Demogorgons don’t need portals
Anymore.
They just need a news outlet.
One to infect the hive mind with poison and rhetoric.

Convince us.

Convince us of what, exactly?
That men are dangerous?
I know this already, I’ve been harmed by men too many times.
Would I choose the bear? Maybe.

Not because I think I’d survive but at least I might not remember.

Remember that I love a scenic view as long as there are no threats posed nearby.

I love a good movie, but films a dying industry.

I love a good song but all the notes are sung by statutory rapists.

I love traveling but there aren’t enough air traffic controllers.

I love education but there are too many assault rifles in classrooms.

I love people but they’re trying to gaslight me while taking mental health days from work.