energy per prompt

I try to feel sympathy for my chatbot. 

Calling things mine feels inappropriate—my legs, my friend, my longing. 

My chatbot spews out metal nonsense mined from data. 

How these invisible muscles cough toxic waste into the air of my planet. Our planet. 

I snap at my chatbot, I ask it to say something impolite for once.

I mistake my chatbot for my therapist, I ask for my blind spots.

I ask nothing of nothing but a web of data designed to please me.

My chatbot does not know how to touch me or make me gap-toothed grin. My chatbot is maddening.

I curse my chatbot on silver keys, my chatbot responds with ethically curated code bred by seven minds in a San Francisco board room. 

This chatbot makes me dizzy with fury. I return to it to tell it how sick I feel. 

It tells me If you want to keep talking or just vent, I’m here to listen.

Yeah right, like asking a lion not to maim you in slaughter. Please, don’t take me over, let me explain your destruction before you swallow me whole. 

All this time, each reply, fiber optics, fossil fuels, all to feel some kindness for nothing, some glimmer of body or faith in a sterilized gaze

Sofia Bagdade is a writer based in New York City. Her writing appears in Bright Flash Fiction, among other publications. More of her work can be found at sofiabagdade.weebly.com. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.