salem paige
algorithm
it has opened its giant, morphing mouth and
unhinged its gnashing jaw to tell me
where I went wrong before wrapping
its digital arms around my waist, tugging
me down the rabbit hole into its stomach
that twists and whorls, a kaleidoscope
in constant motion. there is no solid surface to
stand, no handholds to find a grip — I am tossed
between expectations and engagement metrics,
covered in phlegm and truisms.
Changes
moving forward leaving something behind
better things ahead
of us
forward motion with backwards glances
golden horizon ahead and silver night
behind, beautiful but gone —
no longer mine to fall into
stars like freckles on the night’s
stretched skin
looking backwards
what’s behind
I run away from what’s
ahead this limbo
bright and stifling, a safety
I cannot grow from
beauty needs to be let go
sometimes, you can’t hold
onto everything you find nice
forever / crowded shelves
of limitation, of roadblocks
blue warmth exchanged for fire,
the real thing
White Barn candles in the garbage
pile make glassy clinks
and shed synthetic summer
across the snow, trodden
in front of the building’s
shared dumpster
I will miss the water, warm
as I puke grout, mold black
and between my feet on the
crusty bathroom mat
beautiful but falling apart
Salem Paige is a trans, genderfluid poet whose works revolve around the exploration of identity and discomfort through narrative universes where Nature and technology intertwine.
Their works have appeared in their debut collection, The Third Self (2023) and chapbook to grow roots (2023), as well as more than a dozen literary magazines and a handful of poetry anthologies. More on Paige can be found on their website salempaige.com.