allow cookies

i tell the internet machine
"you can keep my hands
if you give me something bright."
my face screen glows & i cut off
my fingers to feed the ghosts. they feast
like foxes. dens in the floorboards. 
over coffee, we talk about what government lists
we are probably on. i start leaving
the windows open
when i talk about god. i buy a gun
& then do alchemy on it to turn
it into a chimney. burn an old cell phone
& all the tiny pictures of us 
as mall children. i want to be kept
in all the places. to press footprints 
against the ceiling. in the old parking garage
where we used to kiss 
there were handprints above our heads.
we imagined people crawling up there
like spiders. i grew up in a town
with unlocked doors. once a man
wandered into our house. 
he fell asleep on the couch & my uncle 
found him. i don't think as much
about privacy as i should. when hansel 
& grettle went into the woods 
they thought there was a way out.
the birds ate their breadcrumbs
& along with them, their secret 
youtube playlists & even their emails with
a boy they met in a chat room. i have a birth mark
in the shape of a search bar. i have
to get on all fours for anyone to type
into it. i tell them, "allow the cookies
allow all the cookies" by which
i mean, "do not forget me."