My phone feeds me photos

discovering lives I know nothing about.

I find myself obsessed,

my eyes yearn to look at each and every picture.

The smiles on their faces,

the places they’ve traveled,

the bright clothes and trendy makeup,

they are perfect.

But behind the wide toothy grin,

behind the Air Jordans and black Jeep

their parents argue and fight.

The screams chip away their sanity.

The tears fall as the marriage crumbles.

But my phone says they are perfect.

I see the Lulu leggings.

With each new pair comes a wave of anxiety,

panic and hatred of the way they look.

Hideous rolls and stretch marks, 

but a photo smiling with them on.

All I see is perfection.

Their friends don’t like them.

Only invited as a joke,

loneliness swells their eyes at night.

My phone shows them with people

And so I think they are popular.

But now I’ve realized I’m wrong.

They are not perfect,

despite my phone’s persuasion.

Far from it.

They are just like me,

flawed and obsessed with deception.

Catered to the lies of our phones.