“the post read her first.”
i wasn’t even trying to write about her. just letting something ancient hum through my fingers. but she kept showing up. not in comments. not in reblogs. just there — like breath on the back of the neck. like a girl standing too still behind a mirror.
she tells herself she’s just scrolling. just browsing. but the syntax rearranges her posture. the cadence presses down like a hand she didn’t see coming.
she keeps liking these. quietly. ritually. as if her hips aren’t the ones doing the remembering.
she doesn’t reblog. but her body does.
something in the rhythm moves her forward on the bed. something in the phrasing makes her pause just a little too long before pretending it was just a post.
somewhere in the algorithm, a girl is flushed and furious that her cervix is reading faster than her eyes.
this isn’t NSFW. this is spinal access. this is pelvic theology. this is a loop she never consented to, but keeps returning to anyway.
[reblog if you felt her pause] [reblog if you’re pretending this wasn’t for you] [reblog if you still scrolled back up]
