The Human Supermarket

We are the products, you're the buyer,

Scrolling through the digital fire.

Our photos, polished, bright and clean,

A marketplace of "might-have-been."

Our bios list our finest traits,

A list of speculative dates.

We package quirks as "spontaneous fun,"

And hide the flaws till day is done.

A swipe to left, a swipe to right,

In the supermarket's sterile light.

You judge the specs, the frame, the style,

And browse a little while.

A match is just a "Add to Cart,"

A temporary, hopeful start.

But if the conversation's slightly slow,

Back to the endless shelves you go.

For why commit? Why try to mend?

The catalogue does never end!

A newer model, just ahead,

With better photos, things they said.

We learn to sell, and not to feel,

To make our offer seem more real.

We hide the messy, complex truth,

For fear it'll harm our market proof.

So we are products, you're the guest,

Putting our value to the test.

But in this game of buy and sell,

We've lost the heart's sweet, fragile spell.

For love's not something you can shop,

The moment that you swiper's stop.