My alter ego has a problem.
She is a gynoid obsessed with Jesus,
or maybe she escaped some digital Eden.
The angel is in the software, sending God’s message, she tells me,
her eyes black and liquid. She hovers in some dark city, or a neon wasteland –
or maybe she spirals into pixels every night.
Whatever flesh comprises her, or language,
whatever curtains hang like trailing drops of blood to frame the doorways of her mind,
Whatever algorithm created her, or me,
whatever prismatic disc or mirror held her image first,
I know she watches me through liquid crystals, beaming in the dark.