I plugged the USB stick into my neck port.
No option to abort.
Less than 16GB to upload.
So little data.
My whole life experience,
zipped into one neat folder for convenience.
This is all I have.
The low-res pictures are of when I was born,
inserting myself into a complicated equation.
I became taller, so that I could stomp the sand.
I (drowned) swam and I (fell) flew.
I build wives and broke them down too.
The hi-res pictures are of how I aged,
like a bitter wine.
Every wrinkle, every line.
The standard definition videos are clipped fragments.
They show me laughing at despair.
The sound of my own voice,
shrill and constantly begging for choice.
I was filmed as I filmed myself,
stacked up upon the highest shelf.
The HD videos are of how I died,
like some dehydrated butterfly.
Every truth, every lie.
Miscellaneous files adorn the rest of the package.
Haphazard mp3.
At the gates and Lionel Richie…
Spreadsheets and presentations,
filled with my wisdom and cruel machinations.
BMP’s of how I painted bloody rosaries.
A reflection of all I represented in crisp binary code.
I didn’t do enough.
Just the bare minimum.
Just within the margins of a glib outline.
Just enough for me and mine.
I wish it was 16TB.
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